


Where You Find It

by nicKnack22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade didn't realize that that cold day in January would completely change his life.  Prequel to You Were My Life in which Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock, and Mycroft realize that family is where you find it.  Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Encounter

It was a cold January day in London on which Gregory Lestrade’s life would change forever. He certainly didn’t know that at the time. Unfortunately, one doesn’t often get notice about such things. There was no advertisement in the post, no email alert on his computer; no one had placed a notation in his calendar. If he had been warned, Greg would have probably done some more mental preparation, wondering why, in fact, things were going to change so dramatically without the slightest provocation... 

No, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade woke that morning with no clue from which to deduce the fact that such an ordinary day would lead to a most extraordinary period in his life. As he made coffee and ate toast, there was nothing more pressing on his mind than the traffic that awaited him on his way to the office, which, incidentally was quite mild and he arrived at the Yard with little to no deviation for the norm. 

“Morning, Detective,” someone called, as he walked in from the icy rain, “Lovely day.”

Greg chuckled as he brushed his hand through his damp hair, “At least it isn’t snow, Moffat,” and he walked up to his office. Greg had recently been promoted to Detective Inspector, and he was still acclimatizing himself to the division. So far, the transition had been mostly smooth. 

He sat at his desk and began going through his email, reading some of the most recent departmental memos. Nothing extraordinary there: two meetings on Wednesday afternoon, a talk on sexual harassment in workspaces to be given Tuesday next, five notices regarding evidence for the MacDonald case, and a note from his mother, reminding him he was due to visit for tea next Sunday. He sighed at the last. 

Life was routine. Paper pushing was frequent between more monumental cases, and Lestrade knew his business well in both instances. He turned away from his computer and briefly swiveled around to look out the windows. He still had no inclination, as he gazed out at the damp, twiddling his pen, that anything important would happen today. He didn’t even realize it when the pivotal moment arrived in the form of a phone call. 

At around ten o’clock, information came in regarding a particularly gruesome triple murder.  
The department mobilized relatively quickly. By the time Lestrade arrived at the scene, the forensics team was busy collecting evidence. Greg stepped into his role with approachable authority, consulting with the head medical examiner and directing the proceedings. 

Three bodies had been found (Bloody well ripped to bits, Greg thought with sadness and disgust) in an alleyway in central London. Two young women, one young man, seemed to be university students. All three had been stabbed repeatedly, sections of their skin had been removed, and several strange symbols carved into their necks. 

“Sight aren’t they?” asked one of the officers.

He nodded, “Did you find any identification?”

Donavan smiled grimly, “The bloke, yeah. The girls no.”

“Well it’s a start,” he sighed, “Go talk to Anderson; see what else he’s turned up.”

“Right, Detective Inspector,” She turned to leave, and Lestrade watched her walk away. It was then that he noticed something odd. 

The crime scene was packed with police officers. The forensics team in their protective suits were milling about, trying to collect evidence and keep the site free from contamination. Everyone was moving pretty quickly and relatively purposefully. Most of them were in uniform. 

This was all normal. The young man standing just outside the caution tape was not. Lestrade tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. He was a pale young man, dark mop of shaggy curls falling into his face, exceptionally thin, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and he was standing perfectly still, just outside the activity, surveying the scene with apparent disinterest. He did not belong.

Greg’s hackles went up. It was normal for police lights and caution tape to draw more attention than they repelled. In fact, crime scenes tended to attract their fair share of weirdoes and eccentrics as well as the odd passerby. Nearly every single person in those categories, however, was usually displaying some kind of emotional reaction: fear, excitement, apprehension, anger, grief. Very few of them stood, as this boy did, greatcoat flared open, indifferent to the cold rain and wind, completely impassive. Lestrade didn’t like it one bit.

“Donovan,” he called.

“Yes, sir?”

His brows were furrowed suspiciously, “Who is that bloke over there?”

Donovan looked puzzled, glancing confusedly from the direction the DI had pointed back to his face. 

“Uh, I don’t see anyone, sir.”

“What are you blind Donovan? He’s right there,” Greg gestured emphatically but when he turned back the man had gone. Sally looked quite concerned, as Greg ran his hand through his hair in confusion. 

“I’ll just go check in with forensics, shall I?” She walked away without waiting for a response. 

It was then that he heard some commotion near the bodies. The same young man had somehow worked his way through the blockades and was gesturing vigorously to one of the criminal pathologists. I do not bloody need this today, he thought as he ran over. 

“Oi, you!” He shouted and the stranger turned to face him, cocking his head to one side and considering the DI with complete indifference.

“What are you doing here? This is a crime scene. Authorized personnel only. Now I suggest that you—” Lestrade was using his best possible commanding voice and he was still cut short, mid-sentence.

“Wrong.” 

“What?” 

“Your team,” the icy eyes stayed fixed on Greg and there was a serious air of disdain emanating from his person and his cold voice, “They are doing it wrong.”

Greg was momentarily stunned by the nature of this exchange. The doctors surrounding the bodies seemed highly disgruntled by the comments of the young stranger. Greg waved them back to work, as the interloper continued staring on. He seemed completely calm, if not a little bored, and the only indication that this might not be the case was the way that his hand was trembling, twitching convulsively. 

“Look, mate,” Lestrade tried to remain calm. He made to touch the younger man’s arm, perhaps guide him away from the scene, but the boy flinched back with a glare, and the DI held his hands up in an effort to calm him.

“We don’t you go home and leave it the professionals, all right? They know what they’re doing. And I am sure that—”

“They’re idiots,” he said disdainfully, surveying the forensics team, some of whom looked up to glare hatefully at the youth. Lestrade internally groaned; they were going to be a right pain later. For now, he waved them down with a firm, “back to work,” and focused on the problem at hand.

“They’re the most highly qualified in their field. They know what they’re doing.”

“They aren’t and they don’t,” the boy’s tone had not changed in the slightest. Icy and indifferent, he stated opinions as if they were facts. 

“What?” 

The boy rolled his eyes, as if it actually pained him to have to answer such mundane questions.

“They aren’t the most highly qualified” He replied.

“Oh, they’re not?” Greg wondered briefly why in the hell he was even mildly entertaining this young upstart. 

“No, they are not,” there was a brief pause during which he passed a clinically discerning eye over the scene before staring straight at the DI, “I am.”

Greg barely concealed his laugh, but only just. The boy’s eyes narrowed with dislike from beneath his damp shaggy fringe. For all that his clothing seemed to be of high quality, he had an air of neglect. Dark circles under his eyes, thin pale face, and curly hair that could use a trim. It was hard to imagine that he was an expert at anything. Except, well, there was something in the pale gaze that suggested a deep intelligence along with total indifference, which gave Greg pause.

“They are idiots. I had this case solved five minutes after I arrived,” Greg’s brows rose to his hairline and he was seriously considering calling in a psych consult. 

“I’m not crazy,” retorted the boy with an air of boredom.

“I didn’t say that you were,” Greg replied, and the younger man looked highly skeptical. 

Honestly, the DI didn’t know what to think. Killers often returned to the scene of the crime; they liked acknowledgement sometimes, especially for something this showy. This kid wanted recognition, that much was clear, but not for killing someone. It didn’t seem that way to Greg, at least, and, after spending nearly all of his adult life in law enforcement, he had learned to trust his instincts. I’m going to regret this, he thought with an inner sigh. 

“Go on then,” he said, and the young man looked surprised, suspicious, and (was that a small smile?) slightly pleased, “Prove it.”

Greg crossed his arms and nodded his head towards the bodies. He certainly meant it as a challenge. He was genuine in his desire to give the kid a chance, but, for the most part, he was just hoping that the young stranger would take this as an opportunity to give in and either confess or get the hell out so that he could get on with his job and actually solve the crime. Instead…

“It was their boyfriend,” the boy stated with clarity.

“What?” The DI was stunned by the fact that younger man had taken the bait and was now spouting off facts (things which it would have been completely impossible for anyone to know) at an alarming rate, clipped cultured tones, enunciating quickly and clearly the exacting circumstances of the death. Greg couldn’t believe that this was happening.

“…of course, when he realized what he had done, he quickly fled the scene. You can see from the foot prints of the trainer marks, heading north. The amount of gravel displaced suggests hasty movement, but not shock. We can, therefore, safely assume that the man—”

Greg made an inarticulate noise, and the youth appeared extremely annoyed with having been interrupted. He sighed heavily, “Yes, yes, haven’t you been listening? Or are you just too stupid to comprehend what I’m saying?” He paused, considering, apparently deciding that Greg’s mental facilities were in need of a reputation of information, “Your killer is a young university student. He was dating both of the women simultaneously. Though one of the girls was dating this young man here,” he gestured vaguely towards the victim lying dead in a pool of blood with medical examiners hovering around the corpse like flies. 

Greg’s jaw had literally dropped. He couldn’t decide what was most annoying: the fact that he had had his authority undermined by a cocky twenty year old; that said kid had just called him stupid and meant it; or that he honestly believed that he knew that identity of the suspect when his own team hadn’t yet been able to identify the mangled bodies of the female victims. 

“Now, look,” Greg began.

“Don’t be dense,” the younger man continued, “I would expect him to be quite close by still. Judging by the nature of the wounds, the angles of the stabs, and the position of the bodies, you’re looking for a young man, probably between the ages of twenty and twenty-one. He will be an athlete, mostly likely rugby. This murder spree was part of an initiation ritual for an urban gang. You can tell by the strange circular markings carved into the victims’ necks beneath the ear. Also, the missing skin suggests a need for evidence of the kill, yet, the fact that such a small sample was taken, indicates that it would be used as proof of the act. You should check any abandoned buildings within a five kilometer radius. This sort of ritualistic initiation will surely have a conclusion ceremony of some kind.” 

He stopped abruptly and looked at Greg, as if startled to still find him standing there. 

“Well?” He asked impatiently.

“Kid, I’m sure—”

“Detective Inspector,” he said in a tone that brooked no resistance, “If you wish to find this man, I suggest that you move a bit more quickly.” 

The two men started at one another for a few moments. Greg was making a decision, a crazy, wild, impulsive, illogical decision. This will not end well, he thought and he felt a headache forming somewhere behind his eyes.

“Michaels!” he called and the young man smirked. I just want this goddamn day to be over. That look does not bode well for my life. He wanted to groan but restrained himself and ran his hand through his hair instead. 

“Yes, sir?” The young sergeant had come immediately.

“I want you to have search parties cover an area five kilometers square from this spot. You’re looking for a young man and probably some kind of gathering. Make sure you’re armed.”

“Sir, why—” the young officer began dubiously. Lestrade rolled his eyes, good bloody question.

“Those are my orders, Michaels, now go,” Lestrade the DI could make quite an impression, or, at least, that’s what the hastily retreating back of his subordinate officer suggested. He turned to face the young man again only to find an empty space where the boy had stood. Fine. Bloody fine, Lestrade fairly growled with frustration, With my luck, the idiot probably was the damn killer and I sat here five steps away from having tea with him.

But, as it turned out, when Sergeant Michaels returned fifteen minutes later, the stranger had been right. Two streets away, in an abandoned theater, the Yard had found several young men, one of whom had the murder weapon in his possession, as well as DNA evidence that could be used to link him and the rest of the group to the murder. All five had been arrested and taken in for questioning. 

As happy as he was to have apprehended dangerous criminals, Lestrade couldn’t help but ruminate on the strange nature of this entire situation. Greg was a man who solved crimes for a living. He had seen many extreme and strange circumstances, yet even he thought that this whole thing was peculiar. It wouldn’t make sense for the boy to have known as much as he did with nothing to go one except the scene of the crime, which he had only seen from a distance. Lestrade lit a cigarette and breathed deeply. Not unless he was the killer, a small voice whispered. Greg was close to following that voice but…the boy had led them to the actual perpetrator. And, well, the youth didn’t seem like a killer, and Gregory Lestrade had a high number of those in his acquaintance with which to make a legitimate comparison. If anything (Greg took another long drag as he watched the forensics team load up the last of their materials), he seemed more like a collector, an enthusiast. He had appeared bored but also somehow engaged, like he was solving a very challenging crossword puzzle. It was all very odd. 

Greg took a final inhale, and Donovan walked over as he crushed the butt beneath his heel.

“I see you met him,” Donovan remarked scathingly.

“Met who?” Lestrade had a feeling he knew exactly to whom she was referring.

“Sherlock,” when the DI looked confused, Donovan continued, “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, that bloke you were speaking too.”

“You know him?” 

“Yeah…” Donovan wore a look of extreme dislike, “He’s a bit of a nutter. Been comin’ ‘round to scenes for about a year…”

Lestrade considered this for a moment without giving her a response. Interesting.

“It’s not normal, sir,” She concluded as if trying to make her point as clear as possible without actually saying it.

The DI inclined his head, his mouth thinning, “No, probably not, but I think he just helped us to catch a murderer.”

“Sill not normal,” Sally muttered and Lestrade glared over at her in a way that made her shut her mouth, “Right. Well, I’ll just take these reports back to the Yard” 

“Yeah,” Lestrade said.

He took one last look at the scene. Then he turned away, lighting another cigarette and thinking of the strange enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, as he walked down the street towards the nearest café. He was so preoccupied by the unexpected turn his day had taken, that he didn’t notice the way that every security camera on the street turned to follow his progress as he passed.


	2. Headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade is at his wits end and then abducted for tea...

Over the next month, Lestrade invited Sherlock to consult on five separate cases, all of which were concluded in record time.

It was after one such case that Lestrade sat in his office contemplating the direction that his professional path seemed to be taking. He had had a long day. Sherlock could be very helpful in some ways…in others, well, he made Greg's life about fifty times more difficult. The DI honestly wasn't sure if the "consulting" detective was doing it on purpose or was just completely oblivious to the way that he grated on other people.

Just today, Lestrade had had to keep Michaels from punching Sherlock in the face. Not to mention the grieving widow that Sherlock had provoked into a fit of hysterics so great that she had almost passed out.

To be fair, the day had been successful. They had solved the case largely thanks to Sherlock's deductions. But…the process had been a lengthy, trying, and difficult one. Half the Yard thought Sherlock was a complete menace; the other half believed that he was secretly responsible for every instance of death and destruction they were called in to work on. It didn't help matters that Sherlock seemed inclined to insult (I'm simply observing, Lestrade.) everyone. If he didn't start to at least realize what he was doing, Greg was pretty sure that someone would take the young man out. It wasn't just the high cheekbones that would be damaged…many of his officers were carrying live weapons…

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Part of him thought that his primary concern should be for his officers, who were clearly not enjoying the presence of the younger man, but he couldn't help but worry more for Sherlock. He was dangerously thin, and, though extremely intelligent, he was so completely antagonistic that Greg wondered if he had any contact with people outside the few texts they exchanged regarding cases. Well, Greg amended, any contact outside observing them like they're science experiments. Oh, it had been worlds of fun watching him "deduce" Sally Donovan after she called him a freak…the resulting slap echoed through the room like a gun crack. Lestrade was torn between amusement and genuine worry.

Greg had tried to express this earlier in the afternoon. Sherlock had seemed a strange mix of fastidiousness and unkempt. And as Greg pulled him aside, he wondered vaguely, what the bloody hell am I getting myself into? Before politely telling his inner skeptic to shut the hell up. He was in the business of solving crimes and so, apparently, was this boy.

"Don't you think it would be better if you could, uh, tone it down a bit?" Greg had blustered gently.

Sherlock looked confused, "I haven't done anything."

Greg rolled his eyes, "and the red hand print across your face, is just decoration is it?" he asked scathingly.

"They're idiots," Sherlock said with scorn, "It's not my fault that Donovan-"

But Lestrade interrupted before Sherlock could continue. Thanks to the younger man, he had already learned more today about Sally Donovan's sex life, socioeconomic status, and emotional drama than he had ever wanted to know.

"Granted, all right, but just because you know these things doesn't mean that you have to tell everyone, all right?"

"I don't know, Lestrade, I notice."

He just has such a lovely voice when he's talking down to you, Greg though most sarcastically. He took a deep breath rather than engage in physical assault.

"Look," he implored, "It would make my life easier if you would at least try to get on with the Yardies."

There was a long pause, during which time Sherlock seemed to consider this. Well, Greg amended, he's either considering it or deducing me…I hope it's the first.

"Please," he added.

"They're ordinary. Dull," Sherlock's nose crinkled in disgust, "Why should I care?"

"Because they are trying to do something good." No response, "Because I'm asking you nicely. Because we work best as a team."

"I work alone; I am a consulting detective," he said and there was hint of pride in his voice. Sherlock added, as if to make sure that he was perfectly clear, "The only one. I invented the profession."

"What exactly does that mean, consulting detective?" Greg asked suspiciously.

Sherlock smirked, "When you're out of your depth, which is quite frequently, you call me and I put my considerable talents at your disposal."

Greg glared, "Well it's hard to bring you in to "consult" if you're going to keep right on terrorizing the victims and getting into fights with the officers on duty."

Sherlock turned sulky. Greg was beginning to understand that the boy, though in some ways brilliant, was complete and utter bollocks at interpreting things like sarcasm, emotional reactions (there had been a tense moment with Sherlock describing a death in excruciating detail within earshot of the grieving mother), and anything like appropriate social cues. It was very disconcerting to talk to Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade observed, not least, because he felt like he was under a microscope with every feature and flaw held out for scrutiny. He also seemed to hold a very low regard for humanity in general.

"And what do you get out of this?" Lestrade was genuinely curious. Was this some vigilante mission? A quest for justice? A weird murder fetish?

"It's fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes," he nodded face impassive, "and it alleviates the boredom. The world is boring."

"Right." Greg was not sure how he felt about any of this, especially the abrasive and potentially mentally unstable young man whose greatest passion involved the observation of murders, "Well if you want to keep working with us, you're going to have to try, all right?"

They had reached a tentative peace and Sherlock had gotten into two more arguments before the afternoon was over.

Reliving the tense moments even now, hours later, made Greg want to slam his head down on his desk. He knew that he wouldn't stop asking for Sherlock's help, just as much as Sherlock knew it. The problem, of course, was that it would be bloody difficult to keep on if the "ordinary" detectives and the "consulting" one couldn't come to a truce.

That wasn't even the worst part of it. The fact was, that though Greg wanted to keep their relationship strictly professional, he seemed exceedingly preoccupied with the welfare of a certain enigmatic consulting detective, whose random comings and goings brought up a great deal of angst and tension.

Greg didn't want to worry about the damn kid, who wasn't, when you got right down to it, a kid. He was an adult, he could look out for himself, except, Greg had a sneaky suspicion that Sherlock's definition of self-care was very different from that of a "normal" person…

I should have bought a puppy; he continued rubbing his eyes applying force to alleviate the steady throbbing of his head (the number of headaches he experienced per day had dramatically increased since he had met Sherlock). They all said to get a puppy after the divorce. Cute little pet, take your mind off things; give you something else to worry about. But no, Greg almost wanted to laugh. He had so completely resisted the idea of getting something to care for. He had barely been able to look after himself, after all. Now, four years later he seemed to be on the verge of adopting a lunatic, consulting detective, with no social skills, a personality that asked to be punched in the face, and, most wonderfully, seemed to have absolutely no desire to be looked after by Greg or anyone else for that matter. Ironic: a puppy would have been so much easier and infinitely more appreciative.

Greg lifted his face from his hands and finished his paper work, donned his scarf and coat, and locked his office. He was looking forward to dinner followed by a warm cuppa, maybe some telly and bed. A nice quiet night. He was quite certain that he deserved one. Alas, he had not yet realized that having Sherlock Holmes in his life would frequently preclude such things.

Since he had met Sherlock a series of strange, but innocuous and mostly unnoticed things had happened to Gregory Lestrade. The first and most prominent was that he was consistently worried about the younger man. The others were less obvious to Greg. Like the fact that random surveillance cameras seemed to follow his movements or the way that there seemed to be far more men in suits that seemed inclined to bump into him on the street than there had been previously. Greg was usually thinking of quite different things.

This was probably why he didn't notice that he was being followed that evening as he walked down the street, not, that is, until the man came up behind him and briefly tapped him on the elbow.

"Sir," the stranger said when Greg appeared startled, "I require you to come with me on a matter of some import."

Greg was not an idiot and was therefore highly suspicious until the man presented him with a signed memorandum of his superior at the Yard, requesting an immediate meeting, to which Lestrade felt he had no available response other than acquiescence. He thus got into the waiting car and ten minutes later was escorted into a small and expensive French café. He was placed at a table and waited impatiently, tapping his fingers on the table cloth in an anxious tattoo, wishing he had a cigarette and a more relaxing evening.

That was when he saw him for the first time. He cut a striking figure as he walked into the room. Tall, sharp, all angles and edges, narrow face, high cheekbones and thin aristocratic nose. He wore a well-made suit. A complete suit, mind you, waistcoat, pocket watch, tie, and all. He looked like a nineteenth century gentleman transported and adapted to the present day. He spotted Greg at the table and sauntered over swinging an umbrella as he came. There was something dangerous and arresting about him. Though Greg couldn't quite tell you what it was. There was also familiarity about the way his eyes seemed to calculate everything about Greg in all of five seconds and left him wearing a small smirk at Greg's surprised look, which the DI quickly turned into a frown.

"Detective Inspector," he said in a cultured voice, "thank you for coming."

He sat down opposite Greg and made a vague waving moving to summon a waiter bearing a tea service, which he poured out.

"Not to be rude," Lestrade said calmly and slowly, "But who the ruddy hell are you?"

The man smiled, adding sugar to his tea and stirring slowly.

"That's really not important," he set his spoon aside and blew on the steaming liquid before taking a sip, "However; you could just call me a concerned citizen."

Lestrade was completely certain that "concerned citizens" did not just pick you up of the street and force you to have tea with them. He would bet money that this man was far from being a lay person of any kind.

"That's not an answer," Greg couldn't keep the frustrated tone from his voice and somehow this seemed to please the dapper man, "Why the hell am I here?"

The gentleman took another sip of tea, still surveying Greg with detached scrutiny. There was something very familiar about it…

"It has come to my attention that you have taken into your employ a certain consulting detective," he said precisely.

Greg was momentarily stunned. "Sherlock? You brought me here to talk about Sherlock Holmes?"

The man rolled his eyes as if this were an obvious answer, "Of course."

"Well, first off, I'm not employing him," Greg cut in, trying to puzzle out exactly why this gentleman was taking any sort of interest in Sherlock. Fuck, he thought, what kind of trouble has that idiot gotten into. Honestly, he tried not to think too much about that on a regular basis because he had a feeling that he would not like the answers.

"I can't bloody keep him away from the crime scenes. He volunteers," Greg also didn't like to think how Sherlock found the means to afford his daily bread. Of course, he reflected, that presupposes that he eats at all, when judging by the state of him-.

The gentleman laughed, leaning back slightly in his chair. Greg wasn't sure if he was laughing at the strange face he himself was making or if it was more to do with his comment.

"How very altruistic of him," he seemed to be finding this highly amusing and apparently held a very low opinion of Sherlock's motivations.

"How do you know him?" Despite himself, Greg couldn't help but be genuinely curious

He composed himself and raise one supercilious eyebrow, "Oh, he and I go way back."

Great, another vague non-answer.

"Detective Inspector," the stranger took on a business like tone, "I wish to speak candidly."

Lestrade snorted, he doubted highly that this man had ever spoken with candor in his life.

"Indeed, well, as I am sure you may have noticed," Greg frowned at the dubious inflection in his tone, his intelligence was being insulted far too frequently of late, "Sherlock is not um, how shall we say? A particularly amenable creature."

Lestrade did laugh at that, causing the man to look startled, "If you mean he pretty much begs someone to break his nose every time he opens his mouth, it's kind of hard not to notice that."

The gentleman looked as if he wouldn't put it past Greg to have missed something so obvious and Lestrade glared.

"What of it?"

"I understand that he is working under your supervision at the Yard?"

Greg nodded in response, "That's right…" though how the ruddy hell this bloke new all that was beyond him at the moment. MI6, assassin, and royal espionage were all currently on the table.

"Indeed," he spoke in a very clipped and authoritative way, no doubt meant to intimidate Greg who was beginning to rally, "It is my desire that no harm should come to him while he is under your care."

"He is not under my—" Greg began hotly. He did not want to take responsibility for this.

The man raised his brows crinkling his aristocratic forehead, "You are right. He is not under your care," he paused, considering, "He is under mine. However, since he persists in behaving like a vagabond child-"

"Sorry, wait, he's under your care? What the hell do you mean by that?"

The man flexed his long elegant fingers and looked down at them disinterestedly while he contemplated his answer, and Greg became more anxious and annoyed. It occurred to him that that was the point of the delayed response.

"He is my brother," He said without looking up or in any way inflecting his speech, "We do not get on."

Suddenly Lestrade made the connections. The cold calculating stare, the posh clothes, the sophisticated accent, the sense of superiority and disdain for humanity that radiated from both men. They even had the same nose.

"He's your brother?"

The man sighed, "Yes, indeed. And I have a personal investment in his well-being, and since you seem to have taken such an invested interest in his person," here he stared at Greg, "I hold you personally responsible for his well fare."

Now that was going too far, but before Greg could so much as open his mouth the man had abruptly stood up and stepped back from the table, taking his umbrella in hand.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I have an urgent meeting to attend."

"No! Now you wait a bloody second. You don't get to kidnap me and then give me custody of a bloody psych-"

"He is a self-diagnosed sociopath, though I suggest you evaluate his condition yourself, and I believe, Detective Inspector, that you will find that I can."

Greg was about a second away from punching the man in his frustration.

"Do see that he stays out of trouble, won't you? We'll be in touch." He ran his eyes over Greg from his soles to his crown and the DI felt a blush creep up his neck despite the anger.

Then, before he could say another word, the stranger had left and Greg sat down at the table. So much for a nice bloody evening he thought, down. That was when he saw the card.

Mycroft Holmes, it read on neat white stock lettered in black, British Government. It listed a phone number and underneath a note in neat script that read, just in case.

He really didn't want to think of the circumstances under which he would need to contact Mycroft Holmes. He had no idea, as he pocketed the card and left the café, that he would soon need to speak with him desperately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 2, everyone! What did you think? Do you enjoy this early version of Sherlock? How are you finding Lestrade's voice? What did you think of Mycroft and he and Lestrade's first meeting? Please, review, I would love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> It's quite odd to write all these characters when they've only just met. Like visiting an alternate universe where subtle things are different. Anyway, stay tuned because before long Greg is going to be forced to contact Mycroft and things are going to get real for everyone. You know me, angst is where I live. The next chapter should be up within two days.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Nic


	3. Sense of Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg worries...a lot...

Greg had barely recovered from his meeting with one Holmes before he had to deal with the other.

The next morning, he was called in to report on a case regarding a teenager who had been missing for several weeks and whose body had just washed up. Of course, by the time Lestrade arrived, Sherlock was already bent over the body, sniffing it daintily. He probably beat the bloody forensics team here, he thought. Judging by the disgruntled faces that Anderson and company were making, Greg's assumption would appear to be correct.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock spoke without looking up from what he was doing, "I don't believe that your presence will be required here," the young man straightened, "It was quite obviously her aunt."

Lestrade shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and rolled his eyes. It's so wonderful to be needed.

"Right. Great," he nodded at Anderson, letting him move in to examine the body, "Sherlock, I need to speak with you."

The younger man seemed suspicious but protested far less than Greg would have thought likely.

"They're just going to ruin it," he said moodily under his breath, but the DI didn't take the bait.

When they were far enough away from the law enforcement and forensics teams, Greg stopped and considered Sherlock very seriously. The consulting detective narrowed his eyes in response and seemed to be deciding something.

"Look, mate," Greg began.

"You met him."

Greg shook his head, as if to clear it, "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he looked possibly more annoyed than Greg had ever seen him. It was ironic (or perhaps telling?) that the most passionate response he had yet seen Sherlock display was one of frustration, disappointment, and anger.

"Mycroft," he fairly spat the name, "You met Mycroft."

Greg was mildly taken aback by the younger man's vehemence.

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "I met him." If you count abduction and a forced tea party "meeting" someone…

"Well?" Sherlock gestured expansively, appearing slightly wild. Greg was becoming increasingly alarmed, but he endeavored not to show it, "What did my darling brother have to say?"

He was staring at Greg, as if willing him to spill all of his secrets, but the maniacal gleam in his eye was not particularly encouraging. Greg opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off before he could even formulate words.

"Told you to tell me to go home, didn't he? Leave poor, little Sherlock to his big brother?" He spat each bitter word.

The younger man was properly fuming. It was a shock for Greg to see Sherlock this upset and demonstrative. If he was this distraught that Mycroft had spoken with him,  
Greg hesitated to even imagine the two brothers in the same room with each other. He had a horrifying vision of Sherlock suddenly launching himself at Mycroft, and the elder brother stabbing him with an umbrella. Greg shuddered, just thinking of it.

Sherlock seemed ready to continue ranting, but now Greg did react. This was getting slightly out of hand. He reached out to Sherlock who pulled back glaring like a furiously cornered animal. Greg rolled his eyes. Why were things never easy with this kid?

Before Sherlock could continue his vicious invective, Greg intervened, verbally this time.

"He told me to look out for you," he said quickly but firmly, "He said he was worried about you." Greg admitted the last bit somewhat sheepishly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, frozen. His mouth was slightly parted, and his eyes were wide. He looked like he had just been punched in the gut. Greg was not sure what to do. He was still in a state of indecision when Sherlock started to laugh. Hysterically laugh. The consulting detective could hardly catch his breath. He waved his hand vaguely as he doubled over, and Greg was taken completely by surprise. This was not good. Not at all. After weeks of wishing that Sherlock would behave a bit more like a human being, he had final gotten his request and he was beginning to regret ever having asked for it. Sherlock apparently displayed his emotions, much like he did everything else, to a complete extreme that made Greg feel increasingly concerned.

When the consulting detective had finally caught his breath, he looked up to find Lestrade eyeing him warily.

"Oh," Sherlock was clearly not himself. There was something decidedly off, "My dear brother is worried about me." He laughed again; it was a cold hollow sound, and Lestrade regretted that they had moved this conversation quite so far from the medical personnel.

"Worried about me?" Apparently, this was meant to be extraordinarily funny, but Greg was missing the joke. He had been under the impression last night that the brothers had, at best, a contentious relationship. Sherlock's reaction pointed to something far worse.

Greg therefore proceeded cautiously, "That seemed to be the point, yeah…"

"Well you should tell my brother that there is nothing wrong with me," Sherlock was regularly punctuating his statements by pointing at Greg, his eyes flashing dangerously, "He should look to himself."

"I wasn't panning on talk-" Greg began indignantly.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Greg was too concerned to feel insulted or annoyed, "If my brother wishes to speak with you, I doubt there is anything that you could do to stop him."

Greg considered this and then decided that (rather unfortunately) he didn't really have any evidence to refute this claim. He wondered if the younger Holmes was speaking from personal experience.

Sherlock nodded curtly, glaring, clearly thinking of something very seriously. Then, suddenly, he seemed to withdraw somehow. The clearly manifested anger disappeared and all that was left in its place was a studied ennui, which made Greg question everything he had ever assumed about Sherlock's emotional capacities. The entire Yard thought that he was a heartless automaton, but it seemed more likely that he buried everything he was feeling beneath a studied exterior, refusing to deal with any of it. That won't ever blow up in any of our faces, the DI mused with increasing trepidation.

"Well, then, I must be off," Sherlock spun around, but not before Greg glimpsed his strangely glittering eyes. His coat flared out behind him, as he left the scene.

"Sherlock," Greg implored, but it was too late. The younger Holmes studiously ignored him as he strode away. Sudden theatrical departures and a tendency to completely ignore anything that Greg had to say were characteristics that the brothers seemed to share and not positive ones. Although, when Greg reflected on the other qualities they both held, he wasn't sure that he had yet to spot anything affirmative.

No, what was more troubling at this moment was the fact that Greg's trusty instincts were telling him that Sherlock was in no fit state to be left to his own devices. He had a very bad feeling about this…

This sensation stayed with Greg as he and the others cleared the scene. It remained in the back of his mind while he listened to Donovan and Anderson complain about Sherlock and he told them to shut it. The worry lingered as the DI kept glancing around, expecting the young man to come back in order to finish the case (Sherlock never left one unsolved if he could help it). The sense of unease persisted when he arrived back at the Yard and began filing paperwork. It hung around him all afternoon and into the evening, increasing exponentially with each passing hour.

Greg was completely on edge, tapping his pencil against his desk with a ferocity that was not his norm.

"Sir?"

He looked up, startled, to find Michaels in his office. He hadn't heard the officer come in.

"What it is it?" He asked testily.

Michaels hesitated, gaze shifting uneasily, reluctant to speak.

"Out with it, sergeant," Greg didn't have the patience for this.

"Well, sir, it's just that we, ah, got a report about a drugs case," he fiddled with the forms in his hands.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Drugs case? That's not our division, Michaels." He turned away, but Michaels lingered in the doorway awkward and anxious.

"You'll want to look at this one, sir." He offered the report to Greg, who took it irritably, thinking that the sergeant would be lucky to have a job in the morning if he didn't bloody go away.

He glanced at the report, fully prepared to tear the officer out for having interrupted his obsessive worrying. That was his plan…until his eye caught on a sentence that sent his heart straight to his throat. Well, fuck, he thought.

"It was an overdose," Michaels confirmed somewhat guiltily, "He's at St. Bart's. Thought you ought to know. He-"

But Greg didn't have time to listen. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat, and dash out the door with all the speed he could muster.

"Bloody idiot," he muttered and he wasn't sure whether he was referring to Sherlock or himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Welcome to Chapter 3! What did you think? I justify Sherlock being out of character by the fact that, technically, he isn't quite our Sherlock yet. He's a more extreme version of himself. What did you think of Lestrade? Of Sherlock? Of the ending?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this story. You guys make my day. If you get the chance, please leave a review and let me know what you think. :D


	4. Blame Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg stands his ground...

Greg arrived at the hospital in record time. He supposed the advantage of being the DI was that he felt absolved from obeying any and all unnecessary traffic laws in emergency situations. 

He wasn’t quite sure at this point why he was having such an intense reaction to Sherlock’s condition. He couldn’t have told you why he was so attached and involved in his well-being. If you had asked him under other circumstances, he would have readily confirmed that it made absolutely no sense. He had been trying to figure it out in his head for weeks now with no ready explanation. In that moment, however, he could confirm that, whether rational or not, he was bloody terrified of what he would find when he bolted into the Emergency Room that night. 

“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes,” he said shakily to the receptionist.

She looked up and asked vaguely, “Relation?”

Fuck. “I, uh,” Think, Greg, “I’m…”

“He is with me,” came a sophisticated voice from behind him. Greg felt his spine straighten and his neck prickle in response. 

“And you are?” The elderly woman interrogated, seemingly affronted by the stranger’s tone.

Greg heard the click of expensive shoes approach until they were level with where he himself stood and he looked over at his companion. 

Mycroft surveyed the woman with complete disdain, “I am his brother and his guardian. Now where is he?”

There was a sharpness in his tone that Greg hadn’t heard before. For all that Mycroft appeared unruffled, the hand on his umbrella was gripped so tightly that the knuckles were white and his eyes were practically shooting sparks at the receptionist. Greg was relatively sure that he would kill anyone that got in his way right now. Perhaps not personally, he reflected momentarily, Mycroft would probably have trained killers at his disposal. 

Apparently, Mycroft had gotten the results he wanted because he nodded curtly to the nurse. He looked at Greg, considered him for a moment.

“Well?” he asked, impatience written large on his face, “Are you coming?”

When Greg merely stared, Mycroft rolled his eyes skyward and grabbed Lestrade by the arm, pulling him along with him. The DI merely gawked at the hand before allowing himself to be towed into the waiting area. 

Mycroft considered Greg carefully, and then seemed to realize that he was still holding onto the DI and released him quickly. Greg felt the absence of his hand. 

“In case you are curious,” Mycroft began, both hands now grasping his umbrella in a death grip. (Greg wondered if it was some weird comfort item. This made him wonder if Sherlock had one and he was visited momentarily by a vision of the mysterious, volatile Sherlock Holmes clutching a teddy bear. He felt like he might laugh and be sick simultaneously.) “My brother seems to have suffered an overdose of cocaine.” 

Greg waited for the urbane Mr. Holmes to continue, but he didn’t seem prepared to do so. This hesitation was not part of his character. Greg had known Mycroft for a very short period of time, but even he could tell that the man was troubled. He didn’t seem the type to stop short.

“His heart stopped?” the DI asked anxiously.

Mycroft licked his lips and clenched his jaw before nodding tightly, “So it would seem.”

“Fuck,” Greg breathed, shutting his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have let Sherlock just wander off earlier, he had been so unstable…Goddamn it. 

“Quite,” Mycroft conceded. 

“Is he all right?” Greg was almost afraid of the answer. He had seen plenty of people who had overdosed and…

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “What do you think?” But he didn’t let Greg answer, “That was uncalled for. He is currently stable.”

“Thank god.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He looked strange in this scenario, out of place, out of his element, he was putting on a good show, but he was distressed. Deeply. This was a man who had abducted someone off the street to ask (technically order) them to watch out for his baby brother. Granted, that might not be the best possible way to show affection for one’s sibling, but it did suggest concern.

“Are you all right?” Greg’s question was tentative.

Mycroft looked startled, and the DI was forced to wonder when the last time that anyone had asked after his wellbeing was. 

“I’m fine, Detective Inspector.”

“I have a name you know.”

Mycroft smirked, “Of course, I know, Detective Inspector.”

Greg rolled his eyes, if he didn’t know any better he would have said that Mycroft was teasing him. Stress, he thought, Stress is making me imagine things. 

They sat in silence for a few moments lost in their own thoughts. Greg kept tapping his fingers against his leg in a nervous tattoo, wishing that they allowed smoking in the waiting room, but unwilling to leave lest he miss something important. Sure, Sherlock was stable now but what if…

“Detective?” He turned to face Mycroft who was twirling his umbrella incessantly, “Do shut up. I can hear you thinking all the way over here.”

“How can you possibly hear what I’m thinking? Oh, wait…” This was Sherlock’s elder brother. The bugger had to have learned it somewhere…

“Indeed. It is putting me on edge.”

“Right.”

A silence ensued, one which Greg broke.

“Did you know?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or sad; he primarily felt something akin to resigned frustration.

“Know?” Mycroft asked vaguely. This did not serve to assuage a burgeoning sensation of righteous indignation within Lestrade. He wasn’t sure if this was just a way for him to avoid his own feelings of responsibility or just a persistent sense of being completely pissed off that he was the only one that seemed to be trying to take care of this bloody sodding idiot kid.

“Did you know about the drugs?” He tried to keep his tone neutral but did not succeed.

Mycroft looked at him impassively. “What do you think?”

Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he replied, “I think that it’s your business to know things.”

The elder Holmes’ frown softened for a moment before deepening again. 

“And I think that you would know what Sherlock gets up to,” Lestrade prodded accusatorily.

Mycroft looked like he was going to refuse to respond, but then his face dropped, and there was a hitherto unseen vulnerability in the look of defeat there. Greg was under the impression that no one saw him in this state, and it was only their presently dire circumstance that produced such openness. 

“I did know,” he said slowly.

Greg’s mouth thinned to a taut line. 

“Why the ruddy hell didn’t you say anything? Or do anything?!”

Mycroft let out a bitter laugh, “You’ve met my brother. Sherlock doesn’t want anything to do with me. It is a long complicated story, detective.”

Greg was not satisfied with that response, not in the slightest. 

“Which is precisely why I asked you to look out for him,” Mycroft regarded Greg, as if he had found him derelict of his duty, which the DI found completely unfair. There is no way that he can turn this around on me, although, if I had--

“If you had wanted me to look after him properly you should have told me what the ruddy hell was going on,” Greg was nearly shouting and he was not someone who regularly raised his voice. 

Mycroft arched his brows with a lofty expression as if to say, Fine, then, if that’s how you want to play this game.

“You are supposed to be a detective. Are you honestly telling me that you couldn’t deduce that my brother had a bit of a, ah, how shall we phrase it? problem. Did you never notice the erratic behavior? The mood swings? The physical symptoms? If you’ll excuse me for saying so, inspector, that makes you more incompetent then I had ever believed possible.” Mycroft was so scathing that Greg was about a moment away from punching him. 

The truth was that Greg had seen all of these things: the emaciation, the unkemptness, the manic behavior, the strange twitches, the disappearances. He had just never put them together. He hadn’t realized…or perhaps he had just been more comfortable attributing all of these things to pure eccentricity rather than any outside influences. An actual concrete issue would have required his intervention. It would have meant that he would really be stuck with Sherlock, that he would have had to take responsibility for someone. If Greg were completely honest, he already felt pretty tied up with these two men, but if he didn’t have this sort of link he could pretend it wasn’t happening. Too late for that now, he thought, and in that moment Greg resolved himself to something that he never thought he would.

When he looked at Mycroft with a hostile glare and a grim countenance, the posh man seemed surprised by his reaction. 

“Don’t blame me because you failed, Mycroft,” he said, “It’s your own damn fault.”

He had rendered this enigmatic and aloof man speechless and, judging by his face, he had aimed his barb perfectly. Mycroft looked completely stricken. 

The two sat in stony silence for the next three hours. When a doctor emerged to tell them that Sherlock was responsive, both men went to see him. Mycroft, to his credit, forced the medical staff to accept Greg’s presence in a family only area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 4! What did you think? Are you enjoying Mycroft and Greg? Are their reactions/interactions believable? What about our poor Greg’s conflict? I know that Sherlock was missing from this chapter, but, never fear, he’ll be back in Chapter 5, in all of his young, eccentric, abrasive wonderfulness. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and followed this story! Your kind comments and dedicated readership regularly make my day! You’re what makes these stories. :D
> 
> More to come quite soon!


	5. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some decisions are made...

"He'll have to go home with someone," Sherlock's physician was saying, "We can't just release him." The emphasis on the final pronoun did not go unnoticed by all those present, especially not the woman speaking, whose face showed a clear and unwavering determination.

Technically, they could release him to his own devices. Sherlock was an adult and, even if he wasn't, Greg doubted that they could really force him into anything.

So the dispute over what to do with the patient had been the topic of debate for the better part of an hour between the physician, Mycroft, and Greg. The latter two of whom alternated between icy politeness, verbal sparring (Mycroft), and hateful glaring (Greg). The doctor seemed puzzled beyond reason and was desperately trying to force them to come to their senses and reach some sort of conclusion.

The "logical" decision would be to send Sherlock home with Mycroft. The elder Holmes seemed to advocate this course of action especially. Greg was also firmly behind this approach. Unfortunately, he doubted that Sherlock would be remotely complacent. And, when they broached the subject with him after another twenty minutes' furious debate, Greg's fears were confirmed.

"Won't."

"Sherlock," Mycroft began in a coaxing voice, "You know this is for the best…"

Sherlock glared at his brother from the bed. Greg thought it was a wonder that the elder of the two didn't drop dead from the ferocity of it. But then, Mycroft was giving his brother the same look…

"I will not go anywhere with you."

The strength of his resistance was in direct contradiction to the way that he looked. Though his eyes were as sharp and piercing as ever, he looked frail and easily broken. The consulting detective was paler than ever; his messy curls stood in sharp contrast to the ghostly pallor and the dark circles around his eyes. He looked younger and even cagier than usual.

Mycroft sighed heavily, as if all the burdens of the world rested on his shoulders (not just those of the United Kingdom) and most taxing of them all was trying to control his wayward, unreasonably obstinate brother.

"Sherlock Holmes," there was less suave cajoling and more authoritative disciplinarian in his tone now, "You will stop acting like a spoiled infant, right this moment." He straightened his suit a bit, perhaps under the impression that scolding would undermine his fastidious appearance.

Sherlock continued to shoot daggers with his eyes, "You cannot force me, Mycroft," he spat angrily, "I do not exist to do your bidding.I am not one of your mindless minions-"

Mycroft's nostrils flared and his face was flushed with hostility, "You are correct, Sherlock, you are not my minion; you are my brother; however unfortunate that is for the both of us, and you will do as I say."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort. Mycroft seemed poised to continue an invective against his brother. Sherlock's physician, who had been following this exchange like a tennis match between two star athletes, was quite unsure when or how to make herself heard between their serves. Greg, who had been silent throughout, suddenly found himself opening his mouth without any sense of volition. The words that came out of it were completely unrehearsed or premeditated. He was rather unsure from whence the bloody hell they had come.

"He can come home with me."

Every face in the room swiveled around to face him so quickly that he was sure that they all must have suffered from a sense of whiplash. He felt tempted, himself, to look behind him in order to discern the source of that statement. Well fuck. Why did I say that? He thought, quickly followed by, Well it's too bloody late now.

"What did you say?" Mycroft spoke first. Trust him to take charge immediately and assertively.

Greg glanced at Sherlock, who looked so bewildered that it was almost comical, before meeting Mycroft's stare, lifting his chin in a challenge, "Sherlock can stay with me."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and gazed at Greg, as if he had never seen a creature quite like him and would very much like to examine more closely the exact workings of his mind.

Sherlock still looked shocked by Greg's pronouncement, and his physician appeared to think that Greg was either deranged or offering her a means of salvation (perhaps both in one fell swoop). She wanted to wash her hands of this lunatic gathering post haste. Can't blame her for that Greg thought ruefully, Get out while you can.

"Well then if that's settled?" She began brightly, "I'll just get the requisite forms." She spun on her heel and left before anyone could move.

"Have you the slightest notion of what you're getting involved in, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft considered Greg, clearly doubting his sanity.

"I think that I do, actually, Mr. Holmes," He was pleased to note the way that Mycroft bristled at his use of the more formal title. Good, he thought strangely pleased as he crossed his arms, See how you like it.

"I rather think that you have no idea, Inspector. Surely you've noticed that my brother is not quite, ah, domesticated. It doesn't make for a very good pet."

"What the ruddy hell do you mean by that?" The two were squaring off with such an amount of tension between them that they had rather forgotten that there was a third person in the room.

"I will stay with Lestrade."

It took Mycroft and Greg a moment to realize who had spoken and then both turned to stare. Greg was unsure which of the two of them was more startled by Sherlock's pronouncement. Mycroft's shocked face was priceless but quickly replaced with a stubborn hostility. Greg was just gobsmacked.

"You will?" He asked.

"You most certainly will not," Mycroft exclaimed at the same time.

They turned to glare at one another again before facing Sherlock, who seemed to be rather enjoying their unsettlement.

"I think that you'll find that I will, brother dear," He snarked, appearing exceptionally pleased. The expression of hostility and triumph was truly unsettling and Greg began to rethink his decision.

"Sherlock, be reasonable," Mycroft implored, "You cannot possibly mean to stay with this," he gestured towards Greg without turning to face him and seemed to be unable to find an adequate descriptor before finally settling on "person?"

"Well the detective inspector has been kind enough to invite me," there was a clever smile on his face, never a good sign for Greg, "haven't you, Lestrade?"

At last, Greg was being invited into the conversation, but neither of the brothers was sparing him a glance, so intently focused were they on their own battle of wills.

"That's right, I have," he had meant it too, though he was relatively sure that this arrangement would not have a positive outcome.

Mycroft turned towards him, mouth pursed, nostrils flared, forehead thoroughly furrowed. Greg was under the impression that he was trying to convey something using only his eyes, but the DI was unable to discern what it was. Seeing that Greg wasn't getting the message, the elder Holmes sighed and composed his face, glancing between his younger brother and the boy's would be care-taker, then he smiled tightly.

"Very well, then," he said in cultured tones laced with irony, "I see that I can do nothing to persuade you from this course of action."

He wielded his umbrella, pointing at Greg, "On your head be it, whatever the outcome."

His jaw tightened as he shot a look of loathing and frustration at the young man in the hospital bed, "Do try to stay away from needles, dear boy. I don't fancy another visit to this institution."

Mycroft seemed about to say something else but apparently changed his mind, "Don't say I didn't warn you, Inspector. I shall be in touch." He turned and sauntered from the room.

Greg was about to go after him, but Sherlock's physician chose that precise moment to reappear bearing forms. Forms, which, of course, Lestrade was forced to fill out despite not knowing any of the information, because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to do it himself. The consulting detective appeared bored, complacent, and tired. He was relatively docile presently which was both extraordinary and vaguely concerning. Sherlock was not, as Mycroft had suggested, "domesticated." Any appearance to the contrary was affected, generated for a specific purpose, or evidence of deep thought or ennui brought on by a lull in mental activity.

Sherlock didn't say anything while Lestrade went to the front desk to finish filing some information. The mantra of What the hell am I doing? What the ruddy hell am I doing? This is bloody insane! Continued to repeat in his head. He must have appeared much more grounded and sane than he felt because no one was offering him a wheel chair or a sedative. I suppose that's a good sign, he considered, except I think that I could use both. If not now, than in bloody short order.

Sherlock appeared in the waiting room a moment later, dressed in his street clothes, still looking pale, tired, and strangely vulnerable in his imposing great coat, though, to look at his face, you would never express that particular sentiment within his hearing.

He was followed by a harried looking nurse who looked at Greg as if she had never felt sorrier for another person in her life. And she works in a hospital, he considered, What does that tell you about your current decision making processes?

She pressed several pamphlets in his hands, explaining them with brisk efficiency. Unfortunately, Greg was having a bit of difficulty absorbing any information and he stared and nodded vaguely when it seemed appropriate. Finally, the nurse shook her head sadly and said "Good luck, then, you'll need it with that one," before turning away with a very sympathetic face.

Greg briefly had a crazed idea of running after her and begging her not to leave him; to take the whole thing back; she could take care of Sherlock; someone could call Mycroft; Sherlock could go off on his own, he was an adult after all and—It's too late now, Greg, he counseled himself, You made your decision a while ago, now shut the bloody hell up and get on with it. He nodded and faced the younger man who was waiting, bored as ever and probably unaware of Greg's inner turmoil.

"Well?" Sherlock asked, "Shall we?"

Lestrade nodded tightly, "Right" and the two left the hospital together, Sherlock striding very purposefully for someone who had just been hospitalized and Greg wondering what the hell he was going to do with a sociopath recovering from drug addiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 5! Thank you all for sticking with me. What did you think? How are you enjoying Greg? Mycroft? Sherlock? What do you think of their reactions to one another?
> 
> As always, I would like to thank everyone who has read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. You are all lovely. If you get the chance, please, leave a review and let me know what you think. They truly make my day!
> 
> A new chapter of this should be up by Friday. :D Hope to see you then.


	6. No Rest for the Weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade adopts a stray...

Greg spent the whole drive home attempting to make small talk with Sherlock, who had steadfastly ignored him, opting instead to stare vacantly out the window. When they arrived at his apartment, the DI welcomed Sherlock, hastily tidying up the clutter in the living room, while his houseguest's gaze impassively wandered over everything: the ragged rug, the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, the cd collection, the telly, the pile of newspapers lying on the sofa.

"Right, well, ah, this is it," Sherlock only nodded in response, "We can make up a bed for you on the sofa if you'd like."

Sherlock just glowered into space. Greg rolled his eyes. Lovely.

"Would you like some tea?" the DI offered. Sherlock deigned enough to nod slightly, though Greg couldn't be quite sure that the detective knew what he'd just agreed to.

"Right, why don't you sit down, and I'll go make some shall I?" and he fled to the kitchen. What the hell? he thought, as he set water to boil and grabbed some cups from the cabinet. He had taken in a stray consulting detective in the midst of personal crisis, who was now standing in his living room and going to be sleeping here for an unspecified period of time. Steady on, mate. Deep breaths, he admonished himself. He was very tempted to put a sizable shot of something stronger into his tea, but he felt he might need his wits about him.

Greg couldn't let these thoughts snowball, he had to think practically. He would need to call into the office and take a leave of absence to stay with Sherlock for at least a few days, get some shopping done (what the hell did Sherlock even eat?), set up a bed on the sofa, read those pamphlets the hospital had sent him home with…He poured the tea. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had nothing with him besides the clothes on his back. Where the hell did he normally live? Where were his necessities? Greg could loan him some clothes, but Sherlock was taller and thinner than he was, and the DI doubted that would work in the long term…perhaps-

"I'm sure Mycroft will provide something," Greg looked up to find Sherlock seated at the table. He hadn't even heard him come in.

"What?" Greg asked, a bit disconcerted by the idea of Sherlock sneaking up on him unawares all the time. That could get old quite quickly.

"Clothes," the detective sighed, "I'm surprised he hasn't sent something by now actually. He must still be sulking." Sherlock made a disgusted face, and Greg rolled his own eyes at the consulting detective's antics.

Personally, the DI thought that Mycroft was probably still a bit shaken from the events of the past twenty-four hours, rather than plotting some sort of absurd revenge, but that didn't stop him from jumping slightly when he heard the bell.

Sherlock looked at Greg, as if to say, "See?" and Lestrade left the kitchen with a resigned sigh. How did I end up in the middle of a quarrel between two gown men who insist on acting like children in the sandbox? He opened the front door to find the corridor empty save for a neatly packed box on his stoop, which, when he lifted the lid, appeared contain enough clothing to get Sherlock through a month at least. He wondered if Mycroft was customarily responsible for outfitting his younger brother in his impeccable wardrobe. If left to his own devices, Greg surmised that it was highly unlikely that the young man would waste valuable time mingling with mere mortals, let alone shopping for clothing. It was far more probable that Sherlock would just wear whatever he had until it literally fell apart at the seams, which would explain why some of his pristine button downs looked like holdovers from his teen years.

Greg rolled his eyes and bent down to retrieve the box, which was when he discovered a smaller package on the ground beside it: a carton of cigarettes, Greg's chosen brand, with a note attached:

You may also find these useful-MH

Greg smiled slightly at Mycroft's sense of humor. I certainly will. He pocketed them and returned to find Sherlock seated at the table, fingers twitching, but otherwise staring listlessly into space.

Sherlock was not an articulate creature that first evening. Greg was hard pressed to elicit any sort of verbal response from the consulting detective. He couldn't even be bothered to insult Greg's (admittedly sad) attempts to coax him into conversation. The DI made them some dinner (which Sherlock refused to eat); he made them tea (which Sherlock condescended to take a few sips of); he made the sofa as comfortable as humanly possible, piling pillows and blankets high on the old cushions. When he had finished, Sherlock sat down and stared into space without uttering a word. He was sweating and his fingers continued to tremble in his lap, but he didn't say a word. Greg surveyed him with concern, but wasn't quite sure how to proceed.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Is that the best you could do, Greg? He berated himself, Even I think that's dull. Luckily, Sherlock didn't seem to even register the question. Greg touched him gently on the shoulder, and Sherlock barely reacted. That set alarm bells ringing for Greg, Sherlock did not like being touched; his reactions to human contact were frequently volatile.

"Oi, mate?" He shook the boy slightly, "are you all right? Do you need anything? Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't move. His attention remained fixed on an undefined point in the middle distance, somewhere around the third shelf of Greg's book case. "I am fine, Lestrade."

Well at least he hasn't drifted off into another universe, Greg sighed. He sometimes imagined Sherlock's brain as some strange unexplored territory in which it was easy to get lost.

"Do you want me to, ah, stay out here with you?" The DI faltered, mildly awkward. He wasn't Sherlock's brother. Thank god for that, he thought, picturing Mycroft and Sherlock's verbal sparring match. You're not his father either, mate, he counseled himself, and he did not want to even begin to imagine what the Holmes' patriarch must have been like to have produced such damaged children…He redirected his thoughts away from that one, lest he become increasingly frustrated. No, Greg, Sherlock is adult enough. He doesn't need you to sit with him and make sure there aren't any monsters lurking in the cupboard. It was hard to follow his own advice when Sherlock seemed so very like a lost little boy.

The consulting detective looked at him without seeing him, but his expression clearly suggested that Greg was being an idiot, "I am fine, Detective Inspector." Well at least he remembers one of his catch phrases. The DI was unconvinced by Sherlock's statement but he knew where he was not wanted.

Greg nodded and removed his hand, "Right, well then, I'm for bed," Sherlock had returned to staring and gave no response, "I'll be down the hall if you need me, yeah?"

"Why would I need you?" Greg opened his mouth before deciding the question was rhetorical and not worth answering with the full and completely detailed list he had at his disposal.

"Good night," he sighed instead and walked down the hall. He put on some old pajamas and got into bed. He was completely exhausted and fell asleep almost immediately after his head hit the pillow.

Greg could have stayed in a blissfully restful state for the entire night (and much of the following day) if he had been allowed. Indeed, all things considered, Greg deserved a night's uninterrupted slumber. Alas, that was not to be. He was roused from his dreams by a shrill cry, which caused him to sit bolt upright in bed, looking around wildly. It took him several minutes to fully come awake. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, which read 2:53 and experienced a moment's confusion about what the ruddy hell was going on before he heard another pained shout. Fuck, he thought, remembering that Sherlock was in the sitting room and, as far as he knew, the consulting detective had never before made a sound like that. He jumped out of bed and sprinted down the hall, knocking his elbow on the door jamb as he went, expecting anything from an international assassin to an explosion.

He was startled, in the absence of terrorists, gunmen, particle accelerators, or a completely decimated flat, to find Sherlock thrashing around on the sofa, pillows thrown clean across the room. The boy was sweating and screaming, tangled up in his blanket in the throes of what appeared to be a vivid nightmare. Greg sighed and crouched down by his head.

"Sherlock," he whispered, prodding him gently, "Sherlock, wake up."

The boy continued to shout incoherently, and one of his arms almost caught Greg in the nose as he fought off an invisible attacker. There were tear tracks on the young man's face and Greg wondered if he had ever seen anything quite so sad. Poor blighter, he thought as he continued to talk softly to Sherlock, attempting to bring him to consciousness. He shook him gently with one hand and used the other to brush the sweat dampened curls off of the boy's forehead in a would-be comforting gesture (it was what Greg's own mother had done for him when he was sick as a child).

Eventually, after several more minutes' ministrations, Sherlock opened his eyes blearily. He was clearly disoriented and confused, "Lestrade?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse from shouting, "What are you doing here? Did Mycroft invite you?"

Greg shushed him gently, "No, Sherlock you're at my flat. Remember? You've come to stay here."

Sherlock nodded slightly, "Of course I have," he conceded, but he clearly had no idea what Greg was talking about.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock was shaking and Greg nodded, "I am going to vomit," and he did, right over the side of sofa. He had nothing in his stomach other than tea, so he just continued to retch bile. Greg sighed, helping Sherlock to sit up and supporting him as he continued to heave, making calming nonsense sounds, gripping Sherlock's shoulder, and rubbing his back.

"You're all right, shhhh," he comforted, "It'll be okay," secretly, he wasn't sure that anything would be all right again. The world had gone so topsy turvy that he didn't know which way was up or down.

Sherlock laughed scathingly before vomiting again, "I am experiencing withdrawal symptoms," he observed.

Greg sighed and only barely restrained himself from saying "nicely deduced." The boy cut far too tragic a figure to snark at him, Greg decided. Sherlock was shivering, but he seemed to be finished throwing up for the time being.

"Stay here for a moment, all right?" Sherlock nodded weakly and leaned back against the sofa with his eye closed. His simple acquiescence was both unaffected and genuinely unnerving. Greg was scared to let the boy out of his sight, but he came back a moment later with a glass of water, spare blankets, and a damp cloth. Sherlock was seated in precisely the same attitude, clutching a pillow like it was a life raft in a viciously churning sea.

Greg removed the sullied blankets and wiped up the vomit. He gave Sherlock the glass of water, assisting him to take a few tentative sips. Then he covered the boy with the blanket he had brought for him and proceeded to wipe Sherlock's brow as the boy continued to shiver and convulsive.

"I do not think that I am all right," Sherlock whispered between gritted teeth. Greg felt his heart break a bit at the words, who knew that the boy was capable of admitting to fallibility?

"I know," he said softly, "but you'll be all right, Sherlock," he had trouble believing it himself looking at the sad waif before him.

Sherlock's lips twitched into the ghost of smile (perhaps because blind faith was such an "ordinary" and irrational approach to a crisis) before he groaned and folded in on himself again. Greg persisted in running his hand over Sherlock's hair in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. The young Holmes was either too weak or too tired to care or protest. It never occurred to Greg to consider that a human presence might be comforting to someone who so readily scathed humanity in general.

"That is pure speculation. No basis in fact," the consulting detective replied.

Greg said resignedly, "We'll see. Tomorrow's another day."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he just closed his eyes tightly. Greg didn't leave his side for the rest of the night. He woke Sherlock from his nightmares, cleaned him up after he vomited, and comforted him, as he shuddered on the sofa. The poor DI didn't shut his eyes for a moment, though sleep hovered tantalizingly close. Instead, he watched Sherlock like a hawk. When the sun rose the next morning, its rays fell in on a sleeping consulting detective and an exhausted DI, who was still staring at him with intense concern. It was indeed the dawn of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 6. I'm sorry this is later than promised, I was having some technical issues. What did you think of this chapter? Believable? Enjoyable? Please, leave a review and let me know what you think.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favorite this story. You are all lovely and I send you jam filled hugs. 
> 
> More to come soon! Much love!


	7. Rules to Live By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some boundaries are set...

The first weeks were the hardest or, at least, that's what Greg rather hoped. Sherlock made a somewhat seamless transition from weak and listless to manically energetic. It was rather a shock (Are you really surprised, Greg, really?) to come home from doing the shopping, three days after Sherlock had come to stay, to find all of his books strewn across the room, two broken lamps, and what appeared to be blood staining the carpet. Greg had immediately dropped the bags, spilling the milk, as he darted about looking for Sherlock.

His first thoughts were that the apartment had been broken into and Sherlock had been injured or that the boy had turned to self-mutilation as a substitute for, or coping mechanism in lieu of, cocaine. Either way, it had Greg's blood running cold as he dashed around the flat, yelling, "Sherlock!" and engaging in a vicious internal argument (You only left him alone for twenty bloody minutes! and What were you thinking leaving him alone for twenty bloody minutes!). He stopped dead in his tracks when he found Sherlock in his room, rooting through his wardrobe (several of Greg's best shirts and ties were haphazardly discarded on the floor). He was torn between relief and incensed rage (for making him worry and for completely destroying the flat).

"What the ruddy hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock continued his detailed search, "Oh, Lestrade, you're back."

"Nicely deduced, Sherlock," he rolled his eyes, "What the hell did you do to the flat and, for god's sake, what are you doing?"

The consulting detective pulled his head out from amongst Greg's socks and, glancing at the DI said, "I would think it obvious, Detective Inspector,"

Greg crossed his arms and gazed heavenward. Would either of the Holmes' ever realize that he had a name? It's Greg, in case you were curious, "Well it isn't."

Sherlock looked surprised and perhaps disappointed, "I am searching for bugs."

"Bugs?"

Sherlock looked almost as exasperated as Greg felt, "Yes, Inspector, my dear brother enjoys keeping his eye on me," he gazed around the room speculatively, as if deducing exactly where those eyes were hiding, "his ears too."

Greg's own eyes went wide at that. Having Mycroft constantly watching him was highly, highly disconcerting. One thing at a time, Greg, he cautioned himself. He was relatively sure that, if he followed his thoughts to their conclusions with regard to the Holmes' brothers, he would either have a panic attack or hurt someone.

He changed tactics, "What did you do to the sitting room?"

"Experiment."

Of course it's an experiment, why didn't I think of that? Oh, I know, perhaps because it looks more like someone raided the flat and destroyed half of my—breathe, Greg, breathe.

"Sherlock, mate, your, ah, 'experiment' destroyed half my sitting room," to say nothing of the rug and my lamps and the questions of "Was that blood?"

"Don't be dull, Lestrade," the young man scoffed still crouched amongst Greg's possessions, "It was a synthetic compound. You expressly forbade me from leaving the apartment, as you'll recall," he glared a bit, like a small child who had been given a time-out for bad behavior.

Well at least he didn't think to use his own, Greg felt relieved before turning speculative. Perhaps he had. Sherlock would do many things in the name of science, he was sure. Great, now I'm becoming paranoid, except it isn't really paranoia if it's likely…he sighed.

"Sherlock, we need to have a chat," Greg said firmly. He was not looking forward to this, "lay out some ground rules."

Over the next half-hour, he explained some basic rules about the flat and what was considered acceptable and what was absolutely not. Sherlock, of course, was full of protestations. He seemed genuinely puzzled as to why it would it would be considered unacceptable to go through Greg's personal space ("Mycroft is already watching. I see no reason why I shouldn't have access to those spaces as well" "Mycroft isn't-that is…bloody hell! Just don't go through my wardrobe again, all right?).

Science experiments were another area of contention ("You are not allowed to bring anything remotely dangerous into the flat" "But I need—" "Not up for debate, Sherlock." "What if it is essential for a case?" "You're on a case hiatus for the time being." Sherlock's face had been completely priceless in response to that. "Then what do you expect me to do if not experiment!" "Something that doesn't involve illegal substances, blowing anything up, or ruining more furniture.").

They reached a tentative peace with some glaring on both sides. Apparently, it wasn't only Mycroft who was able to effectively square off with Sherlock. Greg was proving to be stubborn where it mattered.

They didn't talk about the way that Greg had cared for Sherlock during those first few days. He honestly wasn't quite sure that Sherlock remembered anything that had transpired while he was "ill." Even if he had, Greg highly doubted that he would want to acknowledge a period in which he had been so weak and vulnerable. Sherlock liked to present a hard untouchable exterior to the world. Greg, however, had seen that the young man was covering up a lot, but he respected the fact that he didn't want to speak about it. He himself was uncomfortable with the way that he felt compelled to protect the boy. He didn't want to shake Sherlock up too much by forcing him to confront something that would turn him defensive, especially since he seemed to be slightly less wary.

For the most part, Sherlock observed the general rules outlined by Greg. The DI was mildly surprised. He'd expected more dissent or sabotage. Perhaps this was his way of thanking Greg for taking him in, or, more likely, it was his attempt to stay out of Mycroft's clutches. Whatever the reason, Greg didn't come home to anymore mock crime scenes.

That did not by any stretch of the imagination mean that Sherlock was consistently agreeable. He alternated between bouts of listlessness and intense activity. It was highly disconcerting to leave Sherlock while he was demolishing the flat (Why reorganizing the CD collection was of such immediate importance, Greg would never understand) and return home to find him sitting with a vacant stare. According to the pamphlets he had been given, this was extremely normal, but Greg wasn't sure how much of this was typical for Sherlock and how much was a direct result of Sherlock's recent overdose and withdrawal. Greg sighed and resolved himself to the fact that any attempt to normalize or predict behavior was completely inapplicable to Sherlock. It just—no.

Sherlock found other outlets for his energy and his malaise. He started smoking. Greg had left a new pack on the kitchen table when he went to shower. When he came back, the carton was missing. He found Sherlock sitting in a cloud of smoke in the sitting room with only three left.

"What are you doing?" It was amazing how often this question came out of Lestrade's mouth with varying degrees of trepidation, exasperation, and barely suppressed fondness these days (often a combination of all three).

"Thinking," the consulting detective said, inhaling deeply.

"Maybe next time, ask?"

Another obstacle to their pleasant (Greg snorted with derision) home-life was the meal issue. Greg tried, with increasing doggedness as time passed, to get to Sherlock to eat. The DI literally paraded the entire spectrum of culinary options before the consulting detective, everything from soup and shepherd's pie to curry, manicotti, and couscous. Sherlock turned up his nose at all of them. Greg was beginning to suspect that he ran purely on a diet of contrary stubbornness, nicotine, and caffeine. It was impressive, if not downright infuriating. It's like trying to feed the most finicky five-year-old that ever lived, he thought. After insistent nagging he could prevail upon Sherlock to at least take a few bites in order to get Greg to stop worrying. It was apparently annoying to hear the litany of concern that ran through the DI's head in regard to Sherlock's eating habits.

Greg brought home cases for Sherlock that didn't require his presence. He worked through them quite quickly. Sherlock needed something to be engaged with at all times. He couldn't do experiments in Greg's apartment but he also couldn't remain unoccupied. That was like allowing an untrained puppy to have the full run of the house: there was no telling what type of trouble he would get into or what amount of damage he would do if left completely to his own devices. Sherlock's recovery, Greg decided, needed to involve productive ways of utilizing his vast intellect and preventing him from getting bored. Boredom, Greg shuddered, was a word that spelled out danger for his person, for Sherlock, for his worldly goods, and the world in general.

Sherlock hated boredom; Greg was beginning to dread it. This was what led him to pick up a second hand violin on his way home from the Yard a fortnight after Sherlock came to stay with him. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that Sherlock had given Lestrade an hour long lecture about the Stradivarius that he had grown up with and an evaluation of every classical composer known to man. Greg's purchase certainly wasn't motivated by the desire to get rid of the barely concealed wistful look that Sherlock had worn when he did this. Not at all.

Boredom and isolation (which worried Greg to no end) also led the DI to pull some strings with St. Bartholomew's Hospital. If Sherlock couldn't do experiments at home, they needed to work out an alternative. Greg knew some people at the mortuary through his work at the Yard. After a few strategically placed phone calls, he was able to arrange for Sherlock to do some "work."

It was with an admonishment to "please be nice," (to which Sherlock replied "am I not?" and Greg rolled his eyes) that the DI left Sherlock with a young intern named Molly Hooper and a fresh corpse. Sherlock approached the dead body with a scalpel and scarcely contained glee. The young woman stared at the oblivious Sherlock with the same avidity that he gave to the impending investigations. Lestrade felt terribly for her. Sherlock couldn't have cared less, and Greg doubted that she would register as a fully animate or important creature to the young sociopath.

They started to fall into a routine. When Lestrade went into the Yard, he would drop Sherlock off at St. Bart's to do experiments, desecrate corpses, examine random minutiae, whatever it was that he did (so long as it wasn't in the flat and it kept him busy). If there was a case, Sherlock would come with him to the Yard and then to the designated crime scene. Once they were on location, Greg would stand back and facilitate Sherlock's deductions. Anderson and Donovan were increasingly resentful, but Greg told them to stand down. They were completely shocked by his declaration of loyalties; that he would side with an interloping "freak" with no expertise. Greg's response to that had been quite clear, and Sherlock had worn a satisfied smirk for the entire rest of the afternoon.

They had a system. It was working out relatively well. Sherlock would occasionally slip up: ("Fuck! Sherlock what the fucking hell are these?" "I would think that highly obvious, Inspector. They are fingers." "Why are there fingers in the icebox!" "Molly gave them to me." "What did we say about experiments in the kitchen?" "Don't be dull, Lestrade. They are not an experiment. They are severed fingers. They will undoubtedly be used as part of an experiment in the future. However, at this point—" "That's it. New rule: no corpse parts in the kitchen." "Lestrade, that is extremely irra-" "Sherlock." "Lestrade." "No cases for a week." "Fine.").

The dust had mostly settled. Sherlock was behaving and recovering. For the most part, Greg was adjusting to his role in Sherlock's life with increasing ease. They were beginning to get to know each other, in so far as Greg was more aware of Sherlock's tics and eccentricities, and Sherlock seemed to know what Greg expected of him in terms of behavior (though he still refused to call the DI anything other than Inspector or Lestrade). They had reached a camaraderie of sorts in which Greg was increasingly inclined to look out for the boy and Sherlock was resigned to behave accordingly. The consulting detective even occasionally seemed pleased by it. This progress was what led Lestrade to agree to let Sherlock stay late at the mortuary (something about testing residues and chemical burns). Not to mention that it meant Greg could eat dinner in peace, maybe even watch telly (Sherlock had nothing but disdain for this resource and his scathing commentary had led Greg to give up on the media as a source of entertainment; it just wasn't worth it).

It had been so long since Greg had been able to just relax and be. A few hours to himself would be heaven. He was thinking of this when he reached the door to the flat. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He felt a small seed of anxiety plant itself in his abdomen. There was no way that Sherlock had beaten him home (or could have been induced to leave those fresh corpses). Greg sincerely doubted intruders, assassins, or criminal masterminds of any variety. No, there was only one realistic option. If he was honest, he was surprised that it had taken so long. It had been a bit more than a month. Greg steeled himself as he pushed the door open.

"Hello, Detective Inspector," came the voice from sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 7! What did you think? I personally enjoyed this snapshot of life with Greg and Sherlock and I hope you did, too. I believe that the next chapter will be up by Wednesday. Until then I would love to hear what you think of this story so far.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, favorited, followed, and reviewed this. You are all so wonderful. Much love.


	8. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is tiramisu and Greg decides to go with the flow...

Greg sighed, "Hello, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes crossed his legs, observing Greg from above a cup of tea. He took a pocket watch from his waistcoat, as Greg crossed the room and resignedly sat in his armchair.

"I rather expected you a half hour ago, Detective Inspector. Tut-tut," Mycroft admonished, voice as crisp as ever but accompanied by a slight smile.

Greg rolled his eyes, falling back on sarcasm, "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Quite all right," the head of the British government seemed to be quite enjoying himself, as he surveyed Greg, "All is forgiven."

"Not to be a pest, but, ah, how the ruddy hell did you get in here?" the DI asked, not totally sure that he wanted to know the answer.

There was an impish gleam in Mycroft's eyes, "Now, Detective Inspector, surely you know that if I told you, I'd have to have you murdered. Just think what that circumstance would do to my poor brother," Yeah, definitely mischievous; this is a strange turn of events, "It is a minor, insignificant detail with which you need not concern yourself."

"Did you make tea?" Greg interrogated, noting the service laid out on the table.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I had to do something, while I waited. As I've said, you were late."

"Right. Yeah," Greg considered the very surreal nature of this conversation and decided to change the tactics of his investigation, "Ah, may I ask why you broke into my flat and, ah, made tea? I mean, I imagine you have a finer caliber at your disposal at home."

Mycroft stared at him, disappointed by his lack of imagination and observation.

Greg added as an after-thought: "Sherlock isn't here, he's at the—"

Sophisticated tones laced with humor interrupted, "My dear, Inspector, I know exactly where my brother is." He sipped daintily from his cup, whilst Greg looked on with confusion.

"Well then why are you-" A strange possibility entered Greg's mind.

Mycroft raised his brows, apparently pleased that Greg was catching on so quickly, "Quite."

"You're here to see me?" Greg asked, somewhat breathless and certainly puzzled.

"Obviously, Inspector," he smirked, ignoring the way that Greg muttered ("Greg, my name is Greg").

"Well, what do you want?" the DI questioned with blunt trepidation. Surely this couldn't be good. If Mycroft deigned to descend from on high and visit Greg in his flat while Sherlock wasn't in, the motivations must be extremely sinister in nature. Honestly, Greg wouldn't be surprised if—

"In point of fact, Inspector," Mycroft set down his tea and fixed all of his attention on the Lestrade, "I wondered if you might join me for dinner."

Silence ensued for a full minute. Clearly, Greg must have heard incorrectly. He should get his ears checked. This was what happened when you listened to violin music all night: you lost the ability to comprehend human speech. It was the only possible explanation. Or, perhaps, Sherlock had, unbeknownst to Greg, slipped some strange trial drug into his tea that morning. That must be it, because Mycroft Holmes definitely hadn't just asked him out for dinner.

"Sorry, what?" he couldn't contain his flabbergasted tone or expression.

Mycroft turned his eyes skyward, and Greg wondered if one day they might become stuck in that position just from sheer repetition of the gesture. "Dinner, Gregory. I believe it is a meal that is commonly taken at this time in the evening. My brother is not here. It seems that you could do with a bit of a break, as it were. I would be honored if you would join me."

Greg's mouth had literally opened in an attitude of complete shock. When he was able to vocalize again, his first response was, "You, you, you know my name."

"Of course, Gregory, as you have been kind enough to remark upon during our previous encounters, 'it is my business to know things,'" he grinned cheekily and stood, taking his umbrella in hand.

"Now. Shall we?" Mycroft smoothed his suit jacket and gestured towards the door. Greg was so stunned by this turn of events that he wasn't really sure what he was doing. He could blame the bizarre state he found himself in for whatever decisions he was making presently, which is why he stood up and nodded.

"Why the hell not?" Greg donned his jacket and followed the smirking elder Holmes out the door.

To Greg's surprise they didn't get into a highly expensive car when they reached the street. When he said as much, Mycroft suggested that they walk in order to "better explore the nocturnal terrain of London" (I swear; he actually said that) and added, "Also, we should take advantage of the fact that it is, for once, not raining." Greg was under the impression that Mycroft had personally engineered a clear night's sky in anticipation of their outing. Honestly, the DI wouldn't put it past his considerable range of influence.

So they strolled through London's streets together, walking close enough that their arms brushed occasionally. As they went, they talked. As in both of them participated in an actual conversation. Mycroft asked him questions, and, when he replied, the elder Holmes seemed to listen with rapt attention, as if what Greg had to say mattered at least as much as the impending parliamentary elections and a great deal more than the Palestinian Israeli Conflict. It was wholly disconcerting, or, it should have been, since nearly all of their interactions to date had been full of argumentation, annoyance, and frustration. Instead of becoming suspicious and tense, in lieu of questioning every exchange, or analyzing Mycroft's motives (and a small part of Greg told him he ought to be doing all of these things), Greg miraculously began to relax. Maybe it was just that he had spent so much time with a taciturn twenty-year old; or that he had been so worried and disoriented lately that he had forgotten what it was like to just unwind for a few moments; there was a high probability that his life had become so completely and radically different and unpredictable that this was just one more thing on a growing list of oddities. It didn't hurt, Greg had to admit grudgingly, that Mycroft Holmes wasn't bad to look at and could apparently (who the bloody hell knew?) be extremely charming. If you had told Greg a month ago that being in Mycroft's presence would put him at ease, he would have laughed until his ribs ached and recommended that you seek psychological counseling. Now, well, Greg was astonished, in the best possible way, to be enjoying Mycroft's company.

They walked for about twenty minutes before they arrived at their destination: a small Italian restaurant, off the beaten path, but clearly of high quality. Greg held the door for Mycroft, and, when he himself entered the space, he was fairly thrown for a loop (yet another one). It was a very small intimate room full of darkened corners, candlelit tables, and secluded nooks, everything colored in shades of crimson, purple, and bronze.

Mycroft was saying something to a man, who appeared to be the owner; in what sounded like flawless Italian (it was very strange to hear anything but perfectly enunciated English coming out of Mycroft's mouth). Greg, on the other hand, found himself rendered completely speechless for the second time in one evening. It was apparently a common affliction in Mycroft's presence. Well, to be fair, it was either shocked silence or righteous indignation, rational speech was a fairly new mode of discourse for them.

He remained silent until they reached a candle lit table, set with immaculate china, and a lovely window view. There was an, undoubtedly, very expensive bottle of wine waiting for them as well. Mycroft sank gracefully into his chair, all elegance and aplomb. He poured some of the Merlot into the waiting glasses and then glanced up, surprised to find Greg still standing with an expression that was akin to someone who had unsuspectingly knocked his head against a wall.

"Is there a problem, Gregory?" The use of his given name in that nonchalant intonation rallied Greg to speech.

"Holy Christ," he stared at Mycroft, whose eyes had narrowed and eyebrows lifted.

"Yes?" He unfolded the cloth napkin and laid it across his lap. Greg was still standing.

"This is a date," This was it: the end of all things. He had entered a parallel dimension, an alternate reality. Sherlock had definitely, finally driven him mad. "Fuck."

Mycroft chuckled, truly, though he attempted to turn it into a polite cough at the end (perhaps to save Greg's pride).

"Of course it is," he indicated the seat that was meant for the DI, "Do sit, Gregory."

Greg fairly collapsed into the chair and readily accepted the glass of wine that Mycroft had poured out, taking a healthy sip and collecting himself. He inhaled deeply (there was something absolutely delicious cooking somewhere nearby, and Greg was reminded that, in addition to losing his mind, he was completely starving).

Mycroft waited patiently and speculatively for Greg to compose himself. He hadn't lost the bemused expression that lingered in his eyes, as if he were taking great pleasure from putting Greg off balance.

Greg briefly ran his hand through his hair in exasperation and found his voice again Why was nothing ever simple? "You could have just bloody asked."

"Please, Gregory, my intentions were quite obvious."

"Of course they were," Greg was trying to balance the aggrieved with the—

"Are you objecting?"

-Strangely pleased. You know what? Fuck it all. If you can't beat them, join them. When on a completely contrived date with fit fucking lunatic, be on a goddamn date. Greg had survived over two months with Holmes. One of which, he had spent as the surrogate parent for the younger and unrulier of the two. Greg had made it through this (relatively) unscathed. How did he do that? By going with the flow. You do not survive an earthquake or a tsunami by actively resisting it in every possible way. No, you recognize that things are changing dramatically and precipitously around you and you accept what you have control over and you adapt to the things that you bloody hell don't. The Holmes' were a natural disaster. They were a completely mental force to be reckoned with. Greg may not be a genius, but he wasn't an idiot either. In fact, his pragmatism and practicality had, and would continue, to serve him well when it came to the Holmes' (much as these traits would later help a certain army doctor).

"It would be nice to be asked next time, Mycroft," he was satisfied to note that his dinner partner looked surprised; at least, that's how Lestrade interpreted the particular brand of contented smirk he was wearing.

"Of course."

"Right then, what's for dinner?" He flipped open his menu. Mycroft watched him as he evaluated his options.

"They have an absolutely delicious Spaghetti Carbonara."

Greg's head snapped up with suspicion written large on his face (if he hadn't used up his raw supply of shock for the time being, or been completely desensitized to shock in general, that would have been his other response), "That's my favorite food."

Mycroft inclined his head, "I am aware of that, Gregory."

"How did you know that?"

"As you—"

"It's your business to know things, yeah, right," Greg completed the phrase, flummoxed, "Are you telling me that you researched my favorite food? And then brought me to a restaurant that had the best version of it in the city?"

Mycroft just smiled enigmatically.

"You know that's really creepy, right?"

Mycroft leaned forward and waved his hand briefly as if such a notion was of complete irrelevance, "Some people would consider the gesture romantic, Gregory," he took a sip of his wine and was gratified by Greg's blush as the DI looked back at his menu, cleared his throat, and said, "Right, well. How about that Carbonara?"

Mycroft's intelligence reports about Italian restaurants in the city of London were completely accurate. Honestly. It was the best damn food that Greg had eaten in months. The wine was superb, the main course was fantastic, and, god help him, Greg had never in his life had tiramisu like that. They had shared a generous piece for dessert, and, if he weren't already tipsy from the wine, he would have blamed the drunkenness on the Mascarpone and espresso (watching Mycroft licking his spoon with relish didn't hurt either). Aside from the gastronomical scrumptiousness, the company was pleasant. They had talked freely, though Mycroft remained a bit shifty about the details of his job. They got on (surprisingly) well. And, when they had lingered over their coffee as long as they possibly could (they were the only two left in the restaurant), they walked through the streets (which truly did have a beautifully wondrous layout to them, Greg noticed) and he took Mycroft's hand as the man made some commentary about the gothic facades on the nearby buildings.

Greg had quite lost track of time, though he was relatively certain that it was rather late by the time they reached his flat. Mycroft came upstairs with him, and, when they reached the landing, Greg did something that he had wanted to do for quite a while. He pushed the head of the British government up against the door jamb and moved in close. Mycroft looked at him for a moment with a very hungry expression on his face, as if Greg was exactly what he wanted for his dessert tonight. The DI liked that he elicited that expression from posh, controlled, Mycroft, and he leaned in, one hand gripping Mycroft's hip, the other on his neck. Then, Greg pressed his mouth against Mycroft's. The other man met him and Greg felt one of his very dexterous hands reach behind him and grab his arse. The DI groaned and pressed against the elder Holmes. They were working up into a very good snog when the door swung open and nearly sent the two men toppling over.

Greg looked, very hazily, at the source of the disruption, reaching a hand up to his significantly mussed hair. Mycroft straightened his rumpled shirt and assumed his default supercilious attitude. Both men turned simultaneously to face Sherlock, who stood in the doorway, with wide judging eyes, evaluating them both, leaving no detail unnoticed. He seemed stunned and outraged.

"Hello, brother," he spat, "Lestrade, you're home late."

Greg looked over at Mycroft then back to Sherlock, Damn it. This is going to be bloody horrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 8, everyone! What did you think? I do hope you enjoyed. Please, leave a review and share your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, read, and reviewed this. You are all lovely.
> 
> Look for the next chapter on Friday! Until then, much love.


	9. The Case of the Stolen DI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which which we have Sherlock's POV...

Sherlock had spent a very pleasant evening at the mortuary. The fresh corpses provided the perfect opportunity to test the effects of several different types of specific chemical burns and their reactions on various parts of the body if applied post-mortem. He was intrigued by the patterns generated on different expanses of skin. He took detailed notes and mentally catalogued smells, colors, patterns, and textures for later reference. The microscopic examination was also a success.

He had happily passed hours consumed by his observations. When a cup of coffee appeared on the table, he drank it absently. He was quite sure it had been set out by that young woman, Molly Hooper: recent graduate, confidence issues, soft spoken, youngest child of a large family, graduated top of her class three months ago, living on her own for the first time with one, no two, cats in a small flat, homesick, never had a serious relationship. Sherlock deduced all of that in exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds, filing it away in case it would be useful at any point in the future. When he had finished the bulk of his work, he surfaced from a haze of information synthesis.

He glanced disinterestedly at the clock in the corner of the room. He had been at it for over five hours. Lestrade would have been expecting him long since. Sherlock smirked, highly unlikely. The DI, though consistently preoccupied with Sherlock's behaviors almost to the point of annoyance, would not doubt savor his "free evening" with an attempt to return to his former routine. Undoubtedly, he would have eaten a meal of his choosing, watched telly (Sherlock's nose crinkled in distaste, why anyone would want to waste valuable brain cells on the retention of emotive triviality and completely irrelevant data, he would never understand). The DI would have fallen asleep on the sofa at approximately 8:52 pm, weighed down by exhaustion from having served as Sherlock's personal goaler for the better part of a month.

The consulting detective was considering the best way to wake the man (an impromptu composition on the violin or a decisive slamming of the front door) when Molly entered.

"Oh, Sherlock," her entire face flushed, and her shifting eyes indicated that she was simultaneously uncomfortable and sexually attracted to Sherlock himself (how very foolish), "I didn't, that is, I didn't think that you were still here…Everyone left a while ago…"

Yet you remained behind, clearly in the hopes of speaking with me alone. At least, it allowed me more time to finish my project.

"I was wondering if maybe you'd like a ride?" She fiddled with the straps the canvas bag she had slung over her shoulder.

"That would be excellent. Do call a cab, would you?" he requested, as he donned his scarf and coat and strode past Molly, who seemed unable to formulate words, "I'll be waiting at the entrance."

Honestly, Sherlock would have preferred to take the Tube or walk. These provided so many more opportunities for him to observe and deduce the people around him. It was a learning experience: collecting tells, tics, signs. Humans were wholly predictable in some ways and completely baffling in others. Sherlock found their sentimentality fully ridiculous. It was something that served absolutely none of them.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket as he waited. He had stolen them from Lestrade when the DI had dropped him off at St. Bart's that morning. He imagined, accurately, the look of perplexity Greg had worn when he had taken a break that morning and couldn't find them. The DI had surely uttered several profanities before realizing that Sherlock was the culprit, whereupon he had "bummed a fag" from one of his coworkers, probably that Moffat fellow at the front desk (he had a three carton a day habit).

Sherlock lit his own cigarette and inhaled deeply. It wasn't cocaine, but it would do for the present. The stimulant helped to focus and calm him, clear his mind, ground him in the present. Physical sensations could do that: prevent him from becoming lost in the twisting web of his brain. He was always on the lookout for something to alleviate the boredom, the lulls. When he had nothing on which to focus his mental energies, it was not so much that his mind would stagnate, as that all of his considerable powers would go off in their own directions at once. With nothing to harness his mental powers, it was easy to be consumed or overwhelmed.

He had learned this long ago. He needed something. He was constantly in motion and required a steady stream of information at all times. When there was no stimulus for his mind, he had to find something else to situate himself. Sherlock had tried many varieties of distraction in the years since he had realized this. When Mycroft had first noticed Sherlock's tendency to get lost within himself, he had suggested that his brother find "an object with which to anchor himself." He had not realized the extremes to which Sherlock would take his advice, professionally or recreationally. Cocaine was just the most recent in a long string of trials, and even it hadn't worked so well as all that.

The world's only consulting detective knew that he was extraordinary. It was impossible to not have deduced early on in life that he was separate from the ordinary people who muddled about without noticing anything, when he observed everything. The only other person he had met like himself was Mycroft (his face tightened with disgust at being grouped in the same category even nominally). Normal people were untrustworthy, simple minded, boring, and predictable. Mycroft was unbearable. The idiot human race did not particularly like or understand Sherlock, and he had nothing but contempt for them. He felt no desire to mingle or involve himself and was therefore resigned to, and indeed embraced, his identification as a solitary creature. Life was far better that way.

An interesting conclusion to draw, considering that the reason he was stepping into a cab and giving his address to the cabbie in a clipped, demanding tone, was that Lestrade had expressly told him not to walk or take the Tube. According to the DI, these modes of transport provided "way too many opportunities for you to get yourself into trouble, and I don't particularly fancy having to come bail you out." The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched; Lestrade had such strange notions about "acceptable behaviors." They could be wholly amusing. The DI had instituted some "house rules," and Sherlock, surprising even himself, had obeyed most of them, within reason.

Sherlock didn't know quite why he tolerated the Detective Inspector. The man was a completely average person, occupied with dull, ordinary pursuits. He was an idiot and noticed absolutely nothing going on about him. It was frankly appalling that he occupied such a high office within the Yard. One potential explanation for Sherlock's continued acceptance was that Lestrade, as the detective inspector, provided him with cases, and, therefore, an active outlet for his energies, an "anchor" as it were. The projects presented by the DI were far more entertaining, interesting, and challenging than the majority of the private commissions Sherlock received.

That was certainly a potential explanation. In all actuality though, Sherlock was relatively sure that there must be more to it than that. Lestrade had astonished him, which was almost impossible to do. Sherlock had not predicted that the DI would offer to allow him to stay with him. The consulting detective was further baffled by the way the Lestrade continually exhibited "concern" for his welfare. The house rules, the restrictions, the attempts to force feed him, the sitting up all night despite clearly observable exhaustion: these were all meant to benefit Sherlock in some way, though the motivations behind these actions were entirely illogical and unfathomable. It made no sense for DI Lestrade to have any personal or emotional investment in Sherlock Holmes.

When he had met Lestrade, Sherlock had evaluated and dismissed him quite quickly. The most reasonable deduction he had gleaned that could account for the DI's actions would be the fact that Lestrade had been divorced for just over five years, and was looking for an affective outlet for his "compassionate" nature. He had three nephews and two nieces on whom he doted, though no children of his own. However, that did not illuminate why he felt inclined to "look after" Sherlock of all people. It would have been far simpler for the man to get a pet. Lestrade was a dog person, inclined towards Labrador retrievers.

No, Sherlock stepped out of the cab and fairly jogged up the stairs to the flat, he required additional observations in order to deduce the motives behind the DI's actions. Until such time as he had fully accounted for these behaviors, Sherlock would continue to "cooperate" with Lestrade.

He had decided during the ride to the flat that slamming the front door would be the most effective manner of rousing the DI from slumber. Lestrade would sit bolt upright, pretend that he hadn't been asleep, ask after Sherlock's experiments (without the faintest understanding of the young Holmes' detailed response), and would then prevail upon Sherlock to eat dinner. Predictably boring evening, totally unoriginal, yet the prospect was not as completely detestable as it could have been.

Sherlock stepped dramatically into the flat and shut the door behind him with a resounding crash. He donned a supercilious expression and waited for Lestrade to pop up from his drowsing position on the sofa, but…

The flat was empty. The lights were out. The temperature was too cool for anyone to have been within the sitting room for at least three hours. Lestrade's case was resting unobtrusively on his favored chair (he had stopped home, then). The scent of the place was distinctly wrong for this time of day. It should have smelled of dinner (Sherlock's prediction for this evening had been roast chicken and potatoes) and cigarette smoke. Neither odor was present. Something was decidedly off. Detective Inspector would have left a note (how dull) to let Sherlock know where he had gone if he were planning to leave. The absence of a message suggested a hasty departure, perhaps unplanned, potentially without consent. The most notable anomaly, however, was not the absence of anything (there had been no robbery or vandalism), but the presence of something unexpected: the tea set on the table.

Two cups were laid out. Only one had been used and it was resting in a saucer on the side of the table that faced the sofa. Lestrade had not drunk any tea. Sherlock examined it more closely: the good china, which the DI had inherited from his grandmother and had expressly forbidden to the consulting detective ("I will never hear the end of it if I break this, or if you do"). The mixture was comprised of Imperial Black tea, tempered with two teaspoons of sugar (white, finely granulated) and a healthy dose of cream. Sherlock backed away from the table, glaring at the dregs as if they had personally offended him.

Mycroft. Sherlock's face was a mask of pure abhorrence that matched his internal seething. Mycroft had stolen Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock's nostrils flared. His brother was such a meddler. He couldn't leave well enough alone. Now he had gone and abducted Lestrade: prevented him from trying to feed Sherlock, and placing ridiculous restrictions on his habits and movements, and monitoring him concernedly. Never mind that these behaviors were all trivial and bothersome. Mycroft had taken Lestrade. Sherlock paced around the flat for several moments, voicing invectives against his brother, chief among them the idea that Mycroft "should go and find his own detective inspector." It was as if his elder brother had taken Sherlock's favorite plaything to spite him. Well, at least there was a high probability that the DI was still alive, if Mycroft had wanted to kill him, he would have done so the first time that he had taken Lestrade off the street. He should not have interfered then either, Sherlock glowered, throwing himself onto the sofa and crossing his arms in an attitude of extreme displeasure and annoyance. Mycroft could be such a child.

Sherlock could have used the allotted Lestrade free time to do any number of things. Instead, he sat mulishly on the sofa, idly picking at his violin, talking to himself, and glowering at inanimate objects, raiding and then smoking most of Lestrade's "emergency stressful situation" cigarette cache (which he had restocked since Sherlock had come to stay), and imaging the conversation he would like to have with his brother with regards to keeping his hands to himself and minding his own business.

He passed three hours thus and worked himself into a fair snit. Where are they? Sherlock huffed. He had come up with fifteen possibilities (the two most extreme included prisoners of war or vacationing on a tropical island). He was so very irritated that he didn't realize there was also a small dose of anxiety inherent in his current mental processes. Mycroft would bring Lestrade back if he knew what was good for him; Sherlock threatened the telly, wielding his violin bow like a sword for emphasis.

It was then that he heard sounds on the landing. Two sets of feet moving with deliberation, hesitation, and then stopping. They clearly belonged to two men of Mycroft and Lestrade's build, age, and shoe size. Sherlock waited for them to open the door. He was fully committed to maintaining his position on the sofa in order to affect the most disinterested and guilt inducing pose that he could. But still they didn't enter.

There were some strange noises coming from the corridor, and Sherlock's brow contracted with concentration and irritation. He lasted another two minutes before he sprang to the door, piqued that his display would be ruined. Perhaps, confrontation would be more effective? He was ready for a confrontation when he pulled the door open with alacrity...

His jaw dropped and his eyes almost popped out of his head with a combination of shock and indignation as Lestrade and his brother attempted to recover their balance and hastily make themselves presentable. Lestrade and his brother. Greg looked shifty and wary. Mycroft had more quickly recovered and was waiting, apparently amused, daring Sherlock to make a comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 9! What did you think? I know, I know, we didn't go directly into the (undoubtedly delightful) conversation that was just waiting to be had at the end of the last chapter. What can I say? Sherlock needed to be situated a bit. The next chapter, which will include arguing Holmes brothers, driven to distraction Lestrade, and wonderfully adolescent Sherlock shall be up this weekend!
> 
> Until then, please, take a moment and leave a comment and let me know what you think! 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	10. Battle of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Holmes brothers squabble over their new favorite toy...

"Hello, brother," Sherlock spat, "Lestrade, you're home late."

Greg looked over at Mycroft then back to Sherlock, Damn it. This is going to be bloody horrible.

"Ah, Sherlock, about that, I—"Sherlock's eyes were fixed upon Mycroft like he wished him nothing but ill. Mycroft seemed completely at ease, if a bit more ruffled than was his custom. The two were staring one another down, and Greg was glancing back and forth between them trying to get his brain into gear and diffuse the impending explosion. He didn't think that he had ever been in a more awkward situation. Ever. Not even when Sherlock had walked in on him in the shower last Tuesday. You could cut the tension with a knife.

"Lestrade," Sherlock hissed without looking at the DI, "do come inside."

Greg considered Mycroft, who was giving Sherlock a glare full of pure loathing.

"Sherlock, I—" he began, but Mycroft interjected.

"Don't be a child, Sherlock," the elder Holmes retorted, leaning back slightly so as to give himself more of angle from which to look down his long nose, "Gregory is perfectly capable of making his own decisions regarding his current positionality. Aren't you, Gregory?"

Greg immediately opened his mouth but before he could respond, Sherlock inquired dangerously, "And who, pray tell, is Gregory?"

Mycroft fairly cackled, "You can't possibly be serious, Sherlock."

At the same time, Greg rolled his eyes and said, "I am."

Sherlock regarded the two of them, as if highly suspicious of their motivations and very skeptical of the veracity of their claims. Perhaps, judging by the blank look on his face and way that multiple chins of disdain had appeared, he was revisiting the scene that he had just witnessed. Of course, Greg mused ruefully, there is the very real possibility that the blighter actually doesn't know my name. Still. I mean it's not as if we live together or anything.

"Highly unlikely," the consulting detective declared before once more focusing his attention on his brother, who was, apparently, the bigger issue and threat, "You stole Lestrade."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I did no such thing," he smirked cheekily at Greg before continuing, "The good detective inspector came along of his own free will. Didn't you, Gregory?" Greg was unsure if Mycroft was deploying his given name with such frequency because he liked it, because he knew Greg appreciated it, or because he was on a mission to make Sherlock as baffled and uncomfortable as possible. Whichever it is, it's working, the DI sighed.

"He's right, Sherlock, I—" in all fairness, Mycroft had rather surprised him and dragged him along, but Greg had fully committed himself to the ride. He had enjoyed it, in point of fact. There was no denying that he was a willing participant in tonight's activities. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't intruded on them—

"There is no need to lie, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted Greg's speech and thoughts brusquely. The consulting detective drew himself up to his full (considerable) height, and his nostrils flared in warning. He had adopted the stance unique to someone preparing to square off in a battle of wills to the death. Greg almost groaned. This was not going well. "He cannot harm you, Detective Inspector."

Greg was completely puzzled by the statement before realizing that the danger to which Sherlock referred was his older brother (on whom his gaze remained glued). That Greg was not even being allowed to take part in this conversation gestured towards the fact this was not really about him at all. Or, rather, he was only part of a longer more vicious ongoing struggle between the brothers. By the looks of things, this evening would not end without bloodshed. I suppose I'm lucky it's taken so long between hospital visits, but still this is not how I wanted to spend this evening.

Mycroft had lost his unconcerned mask of condescension at Sherlock's comment. He appeared, to Greg at least, like he was quite close to throttling Sherlock, new waistcoat be damned.

Greg tried to intervene, "I wasn't really worr-" Mycroft, however, waved him down. Oh, Jesus, Lestrade thought.

"Do you dare? Really?" Mycroft's voice was so laced with vitriol it was a wonder that Sherlock didn't wince under the assault. "Are you casting aspersions upon my motivations?"

"In point of fact, I am, dear brother," Sherlock's icy eyes shot sparks. Greg was under the impression that a gauntlet had been thrown into a ring and there was no going back from here. He ran a hand over his face. Things had been going so well, too. If there were any justice in this whole bloody world he would have been having a decent shag right now at the very least. Don't dwell, Greg, he advised himself, focus on keeping the two of them from ripping each other to bloody bits.

"That is highly ironic, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was so scathing and intentionally abrasive it was frankly amazing that it didn't scrape away at Sherlock's resolve. It would seem that the younger Holmes was made of sterner stuff. He remained standing still in an attitude of determination. Holy hell, Greg thought, the idiot is defending my honor.

"I do not see how, Mycroft."

The elder brother scoffed, "Can't you? With your considerable powers of deduction? Tut-tut, baby brother. You're losing your touch," he chuckled softly and paused to survey the boy before him, as if looking for all the available shortcomings inherent within his person, and Sherlock, for the first time, looked uneasy. It must be strange for someone accustomed to observing everyone else to be scrutinized himself. "I find it most peculiar that you find yourself on a moral high ground from which to judge my actions," another pause, "considering that you use your fellow men as guinea pigs in an ongoing science experiment."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh with a superior affectation, while Greg winced, looking around and trying to judge how likely it was that his neighbors were overhearing this entire conversation. Bloody likely, he concluded.

"Better experiments than pawns in a diplomatic chess match, Mycroft," the younger of the two pronounced.

Oh, shit, Greg thought, now he's done it. Mycroft looked properly apoplectic, and Greg was reminded that the head of the British government had trained killers at his disposal. Sherlock was probably safe as a family member, but it wouldn't do to offer further provocation.

"Gregory is not a pawn," he hissed; his eyes narrowed to slits, head inclined forward as if poised to spit venom.

Sherlock smirked disbelievingly, "Everyone is a pawn in your games, brother. Some more than others. If Lestrade is not, I'd be delighted to hear what exactly he is." Sherlock gestured expansively and then crossed his arms leaning back, waiting.

"Gregory is nothing but an experiment in your attempts to comprehend emotivity," Mycroft shouted, spurred on by Sherlock's calculated attack. Apparently, he had touched a nerve, and, judging by Sherlock's shifty expression, Mycroft had repaid him in kind. Greg had had it. Before either brother could throw the next punch in their verbal combat (and they were both clearly on the verge of doing so), he intervened.

"All right," throwing his arms wide, the DI attempted to redirect the Holmesian attention onto himself (a bold and disconcerting move), "That is enough. From both of you," he expanded when he saw Mycroft's look of outrage and Sherlock's bewildered countenance (which suggested that he had been so consumed by his argument that he had literally forgotten that Lestrade was there). The DI took advantage of their silence and their momentary consideration, brought on by the shock of having been interrupted.

"You are both acting ridiculous, not that I'm surprised, mind you," he paused to look between the two faces, whose expressions were nearly identical, though Greg had the presence of mind not to mention that particular observation in this moment, "Now, stop it. If you want to keep going at it, at least let's take it inside, all right? It's bloody late and I have neighbors that I'd like to be able to look in the eye at some point within the next ten years."

Mycroft's face was an odd mixture of chastened (after this reminder to return to "civilized behavior") and a sort of naughty gleam in his eye that made Greg feel hot under the collar and reflect on the types of noises that had been (and would have been) elicited before they were interrupted. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he was filled to the brim with righteous indignation, tempered with a healthy dose of haughtiness, and a continual loathing for his elder brother, which nothing could diminish. His expression clearly implied that the boring, ordinary, idiotic neighbors could snuff it for all he cared and perhaps their deaths would provide an interesting new case. Greg sighed: I swear the two of them will be the death of me.

"Well?" he asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was resolutely ignoring him. The elder brother rolled his eyes at his young sibling's antics and then glanced at the DI somewhat ruefully.

"I do believe that I have taken up enough of your time this evening, Gregory," he had recovered his suave demeanor, but seemed slightly reluctant to leave (Greg, at least, Sherlock, perhaps less so). Greg was half inclined to tell him to stay or rewind the evening and replay the past few, surreal but ultimately enjoyable, hours, which had been cut far too short. The DI glanced at Sherlock's face and knew that he needed to talk to the kid and that that wouldn't happen if the brothers continued to be in the same room. Responsibilities, priorities, and all that. Mycroft seemed to see all of these thoughts going through Greg's head and looked at him as if to say, "What a strange pair we make. Take care of him if you will."

Greg nodded slightly, "Right."

Mycroft inclined his head. He turned to his brother, who was still moodily ignoring his gaze, and implored, "Do behave yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock condescended enough to roll his eyes, "You behave yourself, Mycroft."

Mycroft smirked and declined a comment. Silence could be more effective with his brother occasionally.

The head of the British government fastened the buttons on his coat, nodded to his brother, and then walked up to Greg, who felt his pulse speed at the proximity. Mycroft leaned in and kissed him soft and slow. Greg was very conscious of everywhere they touched and everywhere they didn't. He was also extremely aware of the fact that Sherlock, though resolutely looking away, was observing the scene with great distaste.

Mycroft pulled back, smiled at Greg and gently squeezed his hand, "Good luck, Gregory. I do hope that we may continue at a later date when we are less likely to be disrupted." There was no doubt to whom that last comment was directed, "I will be in touch."

He sauntered down the corridor and disappeared. Greg watched him walk away, and then turned back to find the younger Holmes waiting for him by the open door to the flat. Once more into the breach, he mused in the face of Sherlock's glare.

Greg tilted his head towards the apartment, "Well, I ah, reckon we should have a chat."

Sherlock merely turned on his heel and strode into the sitting room before flopping onto the sofa in a clear strop.

Greg was tired. He was confused and stressed. He very badly just wanted to go to bed at this point. There was zero desire to deal with Sherlock at his most temperamental. Alas, this is what happens when you take in a stray consulting detective. I'd say I don't get paid enough for this, but, well…

He needed some caffeine for this conversation. He walked into the kitchen, made some tea, and came back into the sitting room to find Sherlock still glowering with his arms crossed. He set a mug down before the consulting detective and gripped his own like it contained a magical elixir that would make the world sensible again. He took a sip, but if it did contain such properties, they were not immediately effective. At least the beverage made him feel moderately more human.

"Are you all right?" he cautiously asked the clearly disgruntled consulting detective, bracing himself for the response.

"He is using you," Sherlock said in his deduction voice.

"Mycroft?"

The younger man rolled his eyes in a fair imitation of his brother, "No, the queen of England. Yes, Mycroft. Idiot."

"Sherlock, crazy as it is, I was an active participant tonight," Greg acknowledged.

"You only think that you were," Sherlock was firm in his convictions.

"So I was—?"

"Duped, bamboozled, tricked, played like a fiddle, yes," Sherlock seemed pleased that Greg was cottoning on so quickly.

"Um, Sherlock, I, ah," he was trying to find a way to discuss this subject with someone who was clearly not very understanding of human relationships of any variety.

"Wrong."

Greg inhaled deeply and released the air slowly, only marginally resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and stem the oncoming headache, "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock appeared gratified to have been asked and given the opportunity to continue his tirade against his brother. Oh, here we bloody go.

"You are operating under the delusion that Mycroft is capable of human emotion. He is not. You also harbor the false assumption that you exercised 'free will' in your interactions with my brother. This is not possible."

"Sherlock, I don't know what happened between the two of you, right, but I think I can assure that I exercised free will. As to Mycroft's emotions…Well, I don't know about all that. But I do know that he, ah, cares for you, very much in his, um, own way," hesitation and determination mixed in equal parts during this declaration, which generated a facial expression from Sherlock akin to sympathy for his poor slow witted brain. Pity over disdain. Dear me, I'm moving up in the world.

"What happened between he and I is irrelevant to the matter at-"

"I don't think that it is. Irrelevant," Greg sipped his tea while Sherlock paused, surprised at the interjection.

"As I say, it is irrelevant. Mycroft is manipulating you, Lestrade," the younger man was adamant and bitter, "He manipulates everyone. It is what he does. You are no exception. If you think otherwise, you are an even bigger fool than I take you for. Though," he considered Greg, "I doubt that is possible."

Greg took another deep calming breath to keep from shouting.

"Is that what happened between the two of you?"

Sherlock ignored the DI's inquiry, as if he hadn't heard it, "Mycroft doesn't care for you. He doesn't believe in caring, and I highly doubt that he is capable of it. Neither of us is." The consulting detective stared into space resigned, and Greg wondered what the bloody hell was wrong with the Holmes' and where things had gone so awry between them.

"I'll keep that in mind, Sherlock," he said, getting to his feet. He placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder, as he went to return his now empty mug to the kitchen. He needed to get at least a modicum of sleep before he could continue the conversation, "I don't think that you're incapable of it," he hesitated, as Sherlock flinched slightly and looked up at Greg with impassive calculation in his eyes, "I think you're just a bit, ah, out of your element…"

A second of silence ensued in which Greg tried to find a way to say that he was relatively sure that Sherlock was damaged, but he really believed that Sherlock could come out of this "rough patch" a great man. Greg cared for the boy, but it would be a lot easier if Sherlock would just let him. The fact that the kid was concerned about Greg at all showed that he cared. And Greg wanted him to know that being with Mycroft tonight had nothing to do with Sherlock. It wasn't meant to be a part of this war the two of them seemed to have; it didn't necessitate a division of loyalties. He tried to convey this by gripping Sherlock's shoulder for an extra second before letting go.

"Don't be dull, Lestrade," Sherlock said before shrugging off the hand. Greg just sighed as he left the younger man to his sulking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 10! What did you think? I do hope it met your expectations.
> 
> The next chapter should be up by Tuesday at the latest. Until then, I would love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, and follow this story. Much Love.


	11. Coffee Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock smiles and it's very surreal...

The next morning Greg woke with a pounding headache. He couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the sensation and spent several moments lying with his face firmly pressed into the pillows, a burgeoning feeling of dread, and a desperate desire to go back to sleep. After five minutes, he gave up all pretenses, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and shuffled to kitchen with half-lidded eyes.

Sherlock was not on the sofa when he passed the sitting room. Odd, he thought, but not unusual. He had overslept, and Sherlock was not one to have a lie in even on Saturday mornings. Though Greg would typically be quite worried by Sherlock's absence and the types of mischief he was undoubtedly getting into, after a night like last night Greg was happy to have a few moments' peace to collect himself, especially first thing in the morning. He grabbed a carton of milk and a jar of jam from the refrigerator and turned around to—

"Gah!" the DI jumped backwards hitting his head against the freezer door and somehow managing to juggle the items in his hands, barely preventing the milk from spilling and the jam from smashing all over the floor. He clutched the two elements of his breakfast, trying to catch his breath. If he wasn't awake before, he certainly was now. Going into the fridge in an empty flat and turning around to nearly walk into Sherlock, standing in the center of the kitchen with two cups of steaming coffee and a very peculiar smile on his face, was enough to give Greg a shock to his system and a wakeup call.

"Good morning, Lestrade," the consulting detective said, offering a cup. Greg considered the steaming beverage, then Sherlock's face, then the mug again. The two things were incongruous; Greg's brain was sluggishly trying to comprehend a situation that seemed incompatible with his experience of having Sherlock as a houseguest. Sherlock didn't make drinks or food. He had to be prevailed upon to consume anything other than cigarette smoke. The only things that Sherlock made, voluntarily, were deductions, trouble, very loud noises, and a mess.

"It's coffee," Sherlock stated, shaking the cup a bit, impatient, though trying to maintain what Greg was mentally referring to as his "creepy" smile. And it was disturbing, didn't quite meet his eyes, and looked a bit like a grimace with teeth. Greg had seen Sherlock smile, really smile, once, when he had been working on the McAdam's case (a very complicated situation that had taken a full three days to work out and involved two types of poison and a very manipulative maiden aunt). Sherlock's ecstatic grin on that occasion, which, incidentally, had been directed at a dead corpse and an orange highlighter, did not look like this. Greg was, therefore, (justifiably) uncomfortable and suspicious.

He raised his brows, "I can see that it's coffee—"

"Oh, good," the consulting detective was pleasantly surprised.

"What are you doing with the coffee?" Greg's thoughts were leaning towards science experiment with him as an involuntary human test dummy, a truth serum to prime him for an interrogation about his "date" the previous evening, or an anti-truth serum to counteract any that Sherlock was sure Mycroft had slipped into Greg's drinks the last night. Maybe it's all of the above: a trial truth serum, truth serum antidote due out in stores later this year…

Sherlock appeared bemused by Greg's question. "Do you not want the coffee? You drink coffee every morning with milk and a teaspoon of sugar. Indeed, your physical response to the mere aroma of the substance is evidenced by the-"

Greg sighed and took the proffered cup. It was too early for deductions and observations. Sherlock smirked. Greg looked down at the coffee, and, though the smell was delectable; the DI refrained from downing the beverage immediately. In addition to the heavily caffeinated drink needing to cool, Greg wanted to ascertain Sherlock's motives before he imbibed anything. Something quite odd was going on here…

"Thanks," Greg said as he put the coffee on the table and bread in the toaster, expecting Sherlock to lose interest in the domestic routine and wander away. The second surprise of the morning? When Greg turned around with a stack of toast, Sherlock was still positioned in the center of the kitchen, apparently bored. What else would he be? It seemed a rhetorical question but Greg was actually curious. If not interested in the mundane, why linger about?

Greg sighed. Sherlock's behaviors and actions were not always foreseeable or expected. Indeed, they were hardly ever either of those things. The consulting detective was, if anything, predictable in his unpredictability. Normal behavior was the anomaly with him. Normal people buy coffee, normal people eat breakfast. If there was one thing that Greg knew about Sherlock, it was that he was not normal, and, any time he attempted to behave to the contrary, there was a lurking hidden agenda involved. On the other hand (putting a positive spin on the situation), perhaps Greg could use this as a way to prevail upon the young man to eat something. On the other, Greg was not sure how long the docile ruse would last, nor was he aware of its purpose, and this lack of information made him hesitant. Sherlock's "creepy" smile was like a placard pasted on his forehead that was meant to say "I am innocent and innocuous. See how friendly I am? Trust me implicitly," but was instead conveying to Greg a message that read "I am clearly up to something. Do not trust me or my motives. Proceed with caution." Greg listened to this advice.

"Would you like some toast?" he asked, proffering the plate and gesturing towards the table with a jerk of his, still sleep tousled, head. While Greg was yet clad in sweatpants, an old t-shirt from Uni, and a robe, Sherlock was fully dressed in trousers and a button down shirt. He looked very very awake. He was clearly in a manic energy phase. God only knows what he's been up to, Greg mused. The DI was not able to make nearly as many deductions as Sherlock would have, but nevertheless he was fully aware that Sherlock had been up for quite some time, definitely had several cups of coffee, and had no doubt been prowling the early morning London streets with his greatcoat and his scarf. Since Sherlock rarely slept, the amount of time he'd been out and about could have been anything from minutes to hours. However, there hadn't been any impromptu Bach at four in the morning, (for which Greg was extremely thankful) and this led him to assume the former.

After reflecting on the matter, Greg decided that he would rather not know what Sherlock had been doing wandering the city since before dawn. He had not been in the best mood the evening before, and, when that didn't result in sulking, it resulted in excessive action. In this instance, Sherlock's method of working out his mood (and heaven forbid you suggest that he's being moody) had probably involved stalking innocent people, violating a good deal of locked doors and "do not enter" signs, not to mention the "keep me posted about your whereabouts" rule, and tasting a variety of things that should not ever touch the human tongue ("Deduction requires the use of all the senses, Lestrade, why should taste be an exception?" "Because that's bloody poison! That's why!").

Sherlock's refined palate had apparently evolved to more sophisticated sensibilities through contact with the delicacies the streets had to offer because he looked at Greg and the stack of toast as if they presented a wholly unappetizing proposition.

Greg sighed, "Fine, well I am going to eat some breakfast. Join me if you like," and he sat down, began to spread jam on the bread and, after sniffing the beverage cautiously, sipped his coffee. Good job buying, or bribing, or calling in a favor for the coffee. It's actually not bad, Greg was vaguely doubtful that Sherlock would know how to make a good brew. Though, one never knew. Sherlock did have a wide array of skills some of which you would never expect.

Sherlock sat down, avoided the toast, sipped his own coffee and examined Greg, as the DI munched on his breakfast. It was quiet save for the crunching, and Greg felt a bit more normal after a few moments. Sherlock's penetrating gaze, however, did not dispel any of the ambiguity that the DI was experiencing.

"All right," he said finally, fed, watered, and resigned for whatever conversation was about to be had, "Let's have it."

Sherlock attempted to maintain his "I'm innocent" face, which was actually a much closer representation of "I am completely guilty," to Greg's trained eyes at least. He had been spending too much time with the bugger if he could start to figure his tells.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock really didn't realize how unconvincing he was or perhaps underestimated Greg's ability to interpret him. Either eventuality was significantly ironic.

"You, getting coffee, sitting in the kitchen, voluntarily. Making faces," Greg raised his brows, inviting confidences and making his skepticism clear, "What are you up to?"

Sherlock endeavored to sustain his politely smiling mask, but it didn't quite contain his look of surliness at having been caught out in a "disguise," by Lestrade no less. The DI could feel his indignation from across the table and he smirked slightly before making his face blank again.

"Look, if this is about Mycroft—"

"Mycroft has nothing to do with my actions, Detective Inspector," Sherlock's offended reaction indicated the contrary.

"Of course he doesn't. That would be ridiculous," Greg took another swig of coffee, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What's this about then?"

"I need a case," simple, direct, and definitely not what this was really about.

"A case?" Greg's tone suggested a healthy dose of incredulity, "You've never tried to bribe me for a case before."

"It is not a bribe," Sherlock gave a fair imitation of Mycroft as he rolled his eyes. Greg nearly spat out the coffee, but covered the laugh just in time, "It is a beverage, Lestrade. Do keep up."

Greg sighed, "Right. Of course. How silly of me, eh?"

"Don't berate yourself too harshly, Lestrade," Sherlock's tone was comforting, condescending, and dismissive all at once, "No one ever notices things for what they are." Including you sometimes, Greg reflected.

"Right, well I'm sure something'll turn up at the Yard by—" Greg interrupted himself. Sherlock was making the face. The "if you do not give me something to occupy my time, the flat will be a smoldering ruin of rubble by the end of the hour and you will be driven mad" face. The "I have way too much energy right now and I need to have it redirected or I will begin to harass your neighbors as deduction practice" look. The "oh, Jesus, Greg! Think of something to occupy his mind right bloody now!" expression.

"I need a case, Lestrade. Get me a case," Sherlock stated.

Luckily, once Greg had learned to look for this particular tell, he had taken to keeping a few things on "reserve," as it were, in case of emergency lulls between cases or a weekend temper.

"There are three files on my desk. Take your pick of the lot," he said rather quickly and Sherlock fairly skipped out of the room. The consulting detective knew that these were particularly complicated cold case files and present be a unique challenge. Greg only ever brought home a few at once and alternated their hiding places in the flat. It wouldn't do to use up all of his ammunition in one short moment.

The rest of the weekend passed somewhat quietly. Surprisingly, suspiciously, strangely quiet. It was downright eerie, and Greg felt that his forehead was gaining new wrinkles daily from the amount of thinking, misgiving, and pondering that was taking place in his brain. Sherlock didn't mention Mycroft; he kept himself very busy actually and only spoke when spoken to. Greg was concerned by the bizarre acquiescence that was taking place in the flat, surrounding daily activities and behaviors. He knew that he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he couldn't help but think that all these incongruities were part of some higher goal.

Greg himself hadn't heard from Mycroft since Friday. The elder Holmes' had not been "in touch" as he had said, and Greg had been too busy obsessing over the sudden variance in Sherlock's behavior that he hadn't had the chance to ring Mycroft. Greg wanted to see the man again, but he was also a bit uncertain about it. Was he avoiding Mycroft? The other way around? Perhaps they were avoiding one another?

Greg wasn't sure, and, in all truthfulness, he would be happy to go back into the Yard on Monday morning. It was a chance to escape Sherlock and get out of his own head. When he got into his office, he closed the door behind him, dropped his briefcase and heaved a sigh of relief. When he looked to his desk he found not merely memos, a retro screensaver on his desktop, and a mess of paperwork he had yet to file. He also found a carafe of coffee and three donuts with an attached note:

I do hope that my brother's antics did not lead to your (most untimely and unfortunate) demise. A gift to aid in your recuperation. I shall be out of the country until Thursday. Let's have dinner when I return.

-MH

Greg smirked and sat down, pouring himself a cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome everyone to Chapter 11! What did you think? I do hope that it was enjoyable. If you get the chance, leave a review and share your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for taking the time to read, review, follow, or favorite this story. You are all awesome and make my day.
> 
> The next chapter will be up soon!


	12. Musings of the British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get some Mycroft POV...

Mycroft Holmes was a dignified man. He was the head of British Government. He was suave, educated, and extremely intelligent, a very savvy political mind. He had sophisticated tastes (which included a penchant for exotic teas, fine wines, French cuisine, and a very prominent sweet tooth, the last of which he shared with his younger brother, though this was a little known fact). He had inherited powers of deduction that could match (if not outshine) those of Sherlock (the boy had to have learned how to hone them somewhere, after all). You didn't become the virtual governing force of a nation without the ability to read people with accuracy and manipulate them accordingly.

Mycroft was a Holmes; he was the eldest child, the inheritor of a legacy. A burden which weighed heavily across his shoulders in a way that it did not affect his younger brother. He was secretive, solitary, distinguished. He could be alternately imposing, dramatic, dashing and charming. He was fluent in over fifteen languages, a master chess player, winner of innumerable accolades (diplomatic, educational, and covert). Though he would hesitate to say that he knew everything (it was not wise to place all of one's cards on the table, after all), it would be foolish to think, for even a moment, that Mycroft did not know nearly everything worth knowing, and, what he didn't know, he would find out in short order and undoubtedly use in the most advantageous way possible.

Mycroft Siger Ian Arthur Holmes was also, notably, largely responsible for raising the world's only consulting detective. The success or failure of that task was something that Mycroft debated on a regular basis. In a world filled with international crises, espionage, economic troubles, terrorism, idiots, global warming, bureaucracy, fools-the list could go on forever-Mycroft's most serious concern was his younger brother. It had been since the child was born. Mycroft worried about Sherlock constantly. It was lucky that his mind was able to multi-task so efficiently, since a portion of his consciousness was always devoted to Sherlock.

Recent events had certainly been a cause for increased preoccupation and surveillance. Sherlock did not like being looked after. Not ostensibly, at least. He had protested quite strongly towards Mycroft's overtures in the most recent past, which had caused his elder brother to devise some more…clandestine means of monitoring and protecting his brother.

Where Mycroft was careful calculation and control, Sherlock was unadulterated brilliance exploding and expanding in unexpected directions. Why the boy elected to be a detective of all things, Mycroft would never fully comprehend. Though, he highly suspected that it had something to do with purely spiteful obstinacy. Where had he gone so wrong?

Mycroft was sitting in a very comfortable chair on a very private jet, flying back to London from a rather spontaneous (though unfortunately necessary) trip to Israel. He did so hate to get his hands dirty when it could be avoided. He was sipping a cup of tea and glancing out the window instead of at the forms laid before him on the table. He did have work to do, although, he seemed more disposed to reflection presently. It wasn't as if anyone would dare to complain about his present focal direction. He handled the bone china with appropriate delicacy and continued to follow his thoughts (a positively novel lack of direction behind them).

It had been an interesting two months for Mycroft (who, incidentally, had a high threshold for evaluating what qualified as being something worth noting). The first indication that he was entering into one of Sherlock's more "indecorous" periods was his brother's decision to align himself with Scotland Yard. Well, Mycroft deliberated, tapping his fountain pen decisively against the forms laid out before him, Sherlock had been playing his little game with the Yard for over a year. What was more interesting, his mouth thinned and he tilted his head to the side as he looked, once again, towards the window, was the fact that the Yard, finally seemed willing to play along.

Mycroft, who could be counted on to consider, weigh, and plan every option and every outcome of a given situation, had honestly never considered that anyone at the Yard would be willing to actually entertain (and he really did consider the detective lark to be a bit of an amusing frivol for his younger brother. Sherlock always did enjoy his diversions) "the world's only consulting detective" and his crazy ideas. Sherlock did not present a highly affable or approachable face to the world. Far from it, in fact, his personality and demeanor tended to keep people away, resulting in increased isolation, confusion, and (despite claims to the contrary) distress. It had always been thus when he was a child and his ability to assimilate had grown weaker and weaker as he matured. It was ironic that Sherlock could claim such grand insight into humanity and yet lack, himself, the basic ability to meld with them in any way. Mycroft blamed himself, at least in part. There was really no one else to admonish.

Mycroft had not invested in making sure that Sherlock was held at bay by the Yard. He had not thought it necessary. He knew what people saw when they looked at the young, slightly manic, waif who came to crime scenes, appeared excited at the sight of dead bodies and (especially) the unusual methods that resulted in the more gruesome deaths, frequently telling off everyone in the vicinity, and disparaging the "professionals" (whose egos often could not abide the onslaught). Sherlock may not have degrees in all the fields that these people did, but let it never be doubted that he was, incontrovertibly, smarter, more attentive to detail, engaged, and passionate than any of the rest. Even if it was just a game, he certainly played to win. It was in his nature to do so. The phase would pass, eventually…and he would apply the same level of focus to whatever came next…Mycroft had observed this pattern before…and, alternately, it would be a vast misuse of Sherlock's considerable skills and aptitudes to carry on with this hobby…

Instead, his zeal for his current pastime was being furthered and encouraged by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft had received the report from one of the agents that he had tailing Sherlock (one of the least inept ones) that Sherlock had been seen "playing detective" on a case, and Mycroft had decided right then and there to discover the motives behind his inclusion. He had begun to gather information on the good detective inspector, collecting surveillance, evaluating his motives (and sanity). Soon, he had gathered quite a file, and, when it seemed the man would not come to his senses of his own accord, Mycroft decided that he would need to intervene directly, and so he had. From his point of view there were two prominent options to consider (out of hundreds of potentialities): either convince the DI to ban Sherlock from involvement with law enforcement and detective work all together or persuade the DI to act as his own personal eyes and ears where Sherlock was concerned.

The choice was not really very difficult. From what he could tell from the detailed reports he received regarding Gregory Lestrade, the man was a decent sort of person, no devious motivations implied at all (rare, indeed). From what he gleaned from the most recent attempts to survey Sherlock, his brother seemed happier (loosely deployed here) and in better health and spirits than had been the case in quite some time. Though, based on experience, it was anyone's guess how long that would last or what would finally push him over the edge this time. Sherlock's grip on stability was tenuous at best. The most obvious (and in this case, correct, reasonable, and effective) solution would be to have the DI, who was noticeably becoming invested in Sherlock's wellbeing and in whom his brother was beginning to trust, act as a sort of "nanny." Sherlock's attitude towards Mycroft, particularly Mycroft's interference, was most hostility, resentment, and a desire for his older brother to "keep his nose out of other people's business," he was clear about this. Mycroft was concerned for his brother and needed someone to take care of him: that was also clear. Gregory, therefore, presented the best possible resolution of the problem. Mycroft determined this and arranged to meet him.

What he hadn't considered was the fact that he would develop an attraction to the DI. Gregory was so very normal, and, though quite a delicious specimen of humanity to behold, he was also a bit dense, predictable, and rather emotive. Mycroft had noted the physical attraction and decided to tamp down on it. It wouldn't do in this case. However, he had not calculated that the other side of Gregory's predictability was a certain brand of stability; that emotivity could also include loyalty, compassion, a certain unpredictability, feistiness, and fervidness; or that, just because Gregory was sometimes dim, it did not mean that he was wholly lacking in perception. Mycroft had anticipated dealing with an uncouth idiot whom he could bend to his will and shape into a well behaved puppet. Instead, he found Gregory to be remarkably strong willed and himself actually enjoying the DI's company (and Mycroft did not often relish the companionship of others, there was a reason the Diogenes' Club was a silent refuge). Indeed, the DI rather began to grow on Mycroft. He was alternately fun to tease, surprise, and rely upon.

Mycroft had seen this last when they were at St. Bartholomew's. Sherlock, oh, Sherlock. News of the drug overdose was rather more intense and alarming than the various missives from nannies, tutors, heads of house, professors, and deans that he had received during Sherlock's formative years calling to his attention to various "misbehaviors" and "transgressions" (and these were often troubling reports). No, it was quite significantly more disturbing than those. Mycroft was distressed. Truly. He had gone to the hospital immediately, making mental notes of whose heads he would have for this, and found Lestrade already there, shaken and determined. Mycroft had taken charge, attempted to level blame at the DI, and Gregory had reprimanded him. The altercation and the following interactions with Sherlock had only solidified in Mycroft's mind that, despite the fact that the DI should be dull as paint; Gregory was something special indeed. His ferocity and dedication was admirable, his ability to put Mycroft in his place after such a brief acquaintance was, frankly, astonishing, and his worry tousled hair was downright sexy. Not to mention, the DI had it within his power to both stupefy Sherlock, intervene into arguments between the Holmes' without sustaining physical or psychological wounds (well none apparently visible), and he had managed to surprise them all. Mycroft rather thought that Gregory was admirably insane. It was refreshing.

He therefore came to a conclusion on the spot (though admittedly it had been flourishing within him for some time): he wanted Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and he would have him. Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be turned down, thwarted, shaken, or otherwise distracted or deprived of his goals. If he wanted to stage a coup in a foreign country? It would be done within the week, at the latest. If he decided that he would one day run the nation? He would cultivate his plans in secret for years, rising to the highest position within the land by the time he was twenty-four. If he wanted someone assassinated? They would be dead (quickly and quietly or slowly and painfully, depending upon the requisite circumstances). If he wanted information? He would get it from you by whatever means necessary. If wanted you elected? You were in office. If he wanted a certain Detective Inspector for his very own? He would have him. That was that. Gregory would learn soon enough.

And so he had begun to cultivate plans. Insidious, important, intentionally romantic and seductive plans and he had rather abducted Gregory to participate. And he had. It was going swimmingly until Sherlock had "surprised" and "interrupted" a rather enjoyable evening. He always did have deplorable timing regarding these things…so did the Israelis and the members of Mycroft's covert-operations within the country. International crises always arose at the most inopportune moments, and so did his underlings' incapacities for the simple problem solving necessary to diffuse an impending war and mounting tension in the Middle East. Really, how difficult would it be for someone to just actively use their brain in response to a problem? Apparently challenging enough that it would warrant Mycroft's presence on the ground (and his disdainful wrath in the air). If you want something done right…

Now, business concluded he was headed back to London and pondering the nature of his relationships with the two most important people in his personal life. The fact that he was counting Gregory in that number was interesting to say the least. Mycroft had observed this thought with a strange sort of detachment before updating Gregory's security status to match. Mycroft did not advocate "caring," not because he did not, in fact, care (if Sherlock were as observant as he claimed to be, he would have noticed that his elder brother cared for him excessively, though not in conventionally accepted manners or expressions). It was more that caring made one vulnerable, it could weaken you, and it could hurt you (it could also result in hurt for the people about whom you cared, particularly in Mycroft's line of work). He had learned that hard lesson as a child and again as a young man. He had taught it to Sherlock repeatedly, trying to soften the blows that the world seemed to perpetually descend upon the boy. Mycroft, as the eldest, knew better how to protect, and he had tried his best to shield himself and his brother. Now, he would also attempt to shelter Gregory, if he could.

He wondered how they were getting on: Sherlock and Gregory. He had left Gregory (who rather seemed able to comprehend and relate to Sherlock in a way that he himself could not, which made sense given that Greg was approachable, affectionate, understanding, and did not come with the emotional and psychological baggage that siblings always carry) with a very disgruntled young "detective" and it was to be assumed that Sherlock was not on his best behavior, unless, of course, he was warming to Greg against his own nature of avoidance. We shall see. Sherlock could certainly make things difficult for both of them if he so chose.

Mycroft glanced down at his watch: half past six in the evening, London time. He was not due to arrive for another five hours. Plenty of time to finish his forms, plan for the upcoming week, and, most importantly, take a rest. Tomorrow would be Thursday, after all, and he had a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, everyone, to Chapter 12! What did you think? I do believe this is the first chapter from Mycroft's POV. I think I was possessed by him. Mystrade next chapter, promise.
> 
> Also, I do know that Mycroft does not have a canonical middle name, so I did some research and then fangirled a bit. Gold stars if you know all the references.
> 
> Until then, thank you all so much for reading, favoriting, following, and, especially, commenting on this story. You are all lovely. If you get the chance, please, leave a comment and let me know what you think.
> 
> New chapter soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, everyone, to Where You Find It. This is a prequel to my other fic, You Were My Life and will tell the story of Greg Lestrade, how he meets the Holmes' brothers and how this affects all of their lives in serious ways...There will be angst (cause that's how I roll) but also some romance, family drama, and humor. So I hope you'll join me for the ride.
> 
> What do you think so far? Did you enjoy Greg and Sherlock's first meeting? Greg is one of my favorites to write and I think that we're going to see how much influence his presence has had in Sherlock's life by the way the our dear consulting detective acts here as opposed to in the series and in my other stories. Just a note: for my own creative purposes I'm setting this story ten years before A Study in Pink, I know it's not canon but I want Sherlock to be in his mid-twenties.
> 
> Reviews/comments/feedback are always welcome (and responded to). The next chapter should be tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. Also, for anyone who is interested the first chapter of the sequel to You Were My Life will be posted mid-week.
> 
> lots of love,
> 
> Nic


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